


Murphy's Law

by izadreamer



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I just wanted Mari to kick ass okay, Identity Reveal, Some angst, being a superhero isn't as cool as it looks, feelings are hard and complicated, mostly just a lot of misunderstandings and patching each other up, some blood and violence but nothing super bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:31:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5359508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izadreamer/pseuds/izadreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it’s not bad luck or karmic backlash—sometimes, the universe is just out to get you, and the best you can do is hang on and try to ride out the storm. Marinette only wanted to buy some new fabric, but the universe has other plans— and neither she or Chat Noir will be prepared for what follows.</p><p>In which there are revelations, daily heroics with an added dash of danger, and some long overdue confrontations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lantern

**Author's Note:**

> This story came from me wanting to write marichat, then ladrien, and then every variation of this pairing, so I finally despaired and put them all into one neat little story. And then added angst and reveals and ass-kicking because I could.
> 
> I can guarantee a happy ending, but getting there will a be a wild ride I hope you're willing to accompany me through.
> 
> With that said, enjoy~

**[December 19 th]**

The sun has long since disappeared below the horizon. Fading streaks of orange and red paint the darkening sky, which is clear but for a small gathering of clouds in the distance. Paris is holding true to its name as the City of Light, lit from every corner, either by the soft glow of streetlamps or the stark brightness of the Eiffel Tower.

Marinette closes her eyes on the sight, breathing in deep and slow. The night air is freezing cold, the taste of winter heavy on her tongue. It wraps around her still figure, chilling her to the bone. Its touch clears away the fog in her thoughts.

Her heart is still hurting, still crying, but at least her mind is clear.

She doesn’t regret what she is about to do. She won’t let herself. If there is any evidence of the toll the past few days have taken on her, it is this. Marinette is so tired of lying. Of keeping secrets. Of smiling and reassuring but seeing their faces fall anyway.

She opens her eyes to the dark sky above her. Light pollution hides the stars from view but the city is its own sky, its many lights shining just as brightly. She marvels in its simplistic beauty. Light against the darkness, so clear-cut and simple.

Has anything ever been simple for her? She thinks it used to be, before she climbed the attic stairs and found a pair of dull earrings that glowed maraschino cherry red in her palm. Her own actions after that certainly hadn’t helped matters.

Marinette hesitates despite her earlier conviction not to. She is afraid to turn around. She doesn’t want to see his face, to hear his questions. She has grown used to this life, to the surety of his friendship and laughter.

She is terrified that what she is about to do will ruin that.

Except Marinette is Ladybug, and more than anything else that means she will have to make sacrifices. Her honesty, her time, and one day, maybe even her life. It is something she had come to terms with a long time ago.

And there is very little in this world she wouldn’t sacrifice for him.

So she takes another breath and lets the night air wash her clean, lets it cool her clammy palms and slow her rapid heart. When she walks to his side it is as she always does, every step deliberate and confident, her head high and shoulders loose.

He looks up at her and she sees all the questions he has been dying to ask her, the way they sit heavy on his heart and his tongue and his mind, and thinks she was cowardly not to do this sooner.

“Chat Noir,” she says, and the use of his full title is almost a confession on its own, the soft way the syllables roll off her tongue carrying a sense of finality. “We need to talk.”

-

**[December 16 th]**

Marinette is halfway to the fabric store and on the phone with Alya when she hears the screaming.

The sound of it catches her attention immediately and she stops, her hand dropping. She can hear the soft tinny echo of Alya’s voice through the speakers, still babbling on about their project. She ignores it and closes her eyes to help her focus, almost dismissing the sound as her imagination until she hears it again.

It catches like a forest fire—where there used to be one screamer now there are many, a crescendo of fear that makes it hard for her to know where to go or what has happened. This time even Alya hears it, her friend shouting through the phone, a fearful edge to her demanding tone.

_“Marinette! Marinette, what’s going on?”_

Marinette clenches her hand on her half-drained cup of tea and ducks out of the way of the crowd, yelping when they catch her in their midst and drive her towards the roads. She follows their movement and slips into the safety of a crowed alleyway, mind whirling.

Blinding light flashes through the crowd of fleeing civilians, the sudden brightness making her wince and causing quite a few more to scream. On the phone Alya raises her voice loud enough to be heard even with the low volume.

“ _Marinette!”_

“No idea,” she tells Alya, distractedly looking for a place to hide. It is far too crowded on the street to transform unseen here. She sees a break in the mob farther off, and breathes out sharply in relief.

“I have to go! I’ll call you later!”

She barely hears the start of Alya’s protests when she ends the call, shutting down her phone and shoving it into her purse beside her sunglasses. Tikki pokes her head out, and Marinette smiles at her in reassurance before rushing into the crowd of frightened people.

To her frustration, the side street is just as packed as the others, people huddling down in cafés and shops, clearly wanting to flee but too frightened to risk it. Marinette grits her teeth and heads toward one of the emptier buildings, dodging bystanders in search of a secluded area.

So caught up in her dilemma, she barely notices another person rounding the corner until she almost slams into them, barely managing to catch herself in time. She skids to a stop, trying desperately to keep from falling, tea sloshing around in the cup she hadn’t thought to let go of.

“Sorry!” Marinette yelps, breathless and hurried. “I am so, so sorry…” she looks up, her voice catching in her throat as her mind scrambles to make sense of the situation.

The other girl scowls down at her, pale eyes glowing like miniature lanterns and wind whipping her dyed hair around her face. Numerous dark beads, small and reflective, hang from a long sweeping dress of pale yellow decorated with streaks of white fabric. A mask similar to Ladybug’s fits snugly on the girl’s face, only this one is made of porcelain and ends in a sharp point over the girl’s nose.

Marinette stares at the faintly glowing necklace handing delicately from the girl’s neck and feels her heart drop.

“Akuma,” she whispers, horrified, and the girl looks surprised—and then, darkly amused. The smile on her face is worse than the scowl: it is stretched and thin, as most akuma victims’ are; baring too many teeth and containing a wicked joy devoid of any warmth or mercy.

Marinette takes a half step back, wide eyes flickering around to take in the scene before her. The girl’s hand is slowly rising to Marinette’s face, her long and delicate nails painted pitch black. Beyond the akuma she can see her victims, curled up on the ground and weeping, their hands pressed against their eyes.

Without thinking she throws her hand forward, shoving the last remnants of her hot tea in the girl’s face. She doesn’t wait to see the aftermath, just dashes by her, trying to quell the guilt rising through her when the akuma’s pained shriek reverberates through the air.

“How dare you!” the girl screeches, her voice shrill and reedy with pain. “I’ll kill you! _I’ll kill you!”_

Marinette refuses to look back, already aware of what she will see. The bust of heat near her heels is confirmation enough and desperately she ducks into an alley, trying to recall where she is and where she is heading. There is no way she can transform now, not with the akuma literally on her heels.

She skids around the corner and nearly trips, but a warm hand grips her shoulder and yanks her upright. She almost screams, almost brings up her fist and prepares to hit as hard and as fast as she can, but then she sees the pale blond hair and the gleaming green eyes and feels herself relax subconsciously.

“Chat Noir,” she breathes, and doesn’t think she has ever been this happy to see him in her entire life.

“Hello, Princess!” he greets cheerfully, running his eyes over her in a quick scan, his gloved hands patting her shoulders securely. “Nice to see you again.”

“Chat,” she repeats, too winded from her run to speak as quickly as she’d like, “Chat, we have to go!”

He looks startled by her urgency, eyes going comically wide. She can’t see his eyebrows beneath the mask but she has a feeling he is raising both at her, surprise painted across his face.

It would be amusing if she wasn’t currently running for her life. Marinette forcefully takes a calming breath, and then shoves Chat Noir off her, well aware that the akuma is close behind.

“We have to go _now_!” she shouts, and this time she must get through, because the playful look vanishes and a frown replaces it. He looks over her shoulder and whatever he sees must solidify it, because the next thing she knows he has taken her hand and they are running for their lives.

“She’s after me,” Marinette gasps out, when they are a few blocks down and the akuma is farther back. She’s falling behind him, her improper shoes hurting her feet with very step and her small body breaking under the strain of their dash.

Marinette is not built for running. Sprinting she can do, and acrobatics, but a hard run for five blocks is not something she was meant for. Neither, she thinks, is Chat Noir—when he looks back at her his face is flushed and his breaths as rushed as hers.

“Why?” he asks. “Did the Princess offend the light-lady’s delicate sensibilities?”

They round a corner and Marinette’s flat shoes skid on the smooth, well-worn cobble of the streets. Only Chat’s iron grip on her arm keeps her from slipping, and he pulls her back to her feet with a sharp tug. Their rhythm falters for brief moment but they find it again, the repetitive _thud-thud-thud_ of their feet upon the stones.

“I might have thrown hot tea in her face,” she admits, and flushes when Chat starts to laugh between every desperate gasp of air.

“You’re paw-sitively vicious, Princess!” he crows delightedly, and before Marinette can respond he stops and pulls her flush against him.

She splutters, taken off-guard by the sudden action, slamming her palm on his collarbone, not hard enough to hurt but enough to catch his attention. “What are you _doing_?”

“Taking a short-cut,” he informs her, one hand securely around her waist and the other lazily spinning his staff. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, and his crooked smile is mischievous but reassuring. Marinette scans his face and slowly relaxes in his hold, choosing to trust in him.

The akuma seems to appear with a blinding burst of light,glowing brightly even in the sun. She takes one look at them and cries out with glee, soft light building up in the center of her palms like miniature beacons.

Chat winks at her, and just as she lunges at them he slams the end of his staff onto the ground, gripping the top tightly as the staff grows, throwing them both up in the air and out of the akuma’s reach.

For a moment they are airborne, untouchable and invincible, and the next moment they are plummeting back to the earth. Marinette yelps when they fall forward onto the roof of a building, flat and new with a door leading in and a turbine roof vent whirling around. The freefall loosens Chat’s hold on her and she slides across the rough stone, scraping her palms and knees.

“C’mon!” Chat enthuses, already on his feet, and Marinette nods, scrambling up and ignoring the stinging pain in her palms. She rushes forward to yank at the door, the metal burning against her scrapes. It opens with little resistance and she ducks insides, looking back at him.

He makes to close it and hide her from sight but then a blast of light bursts over his head like a firework. Swearing loudly, Chat dives inside the building with her and pulls the door shut just as another blast comes their way.

It hits the door with a resounding slam, and the metal glows white-hot, the plastic coating turning an angry red. Marinette bites back a snarl of frustration, grabbing Chat’s shoulder and pulling him away from the bubbling plastic.

Hearing the faint click of heeled shoes approaching even with the wall between them, she grabs Chat’s arm, pulling him alongside her into another run. A clang sounds behind them as the akuma blasts the ruined door open, laughing manically.

“You can’t run forever!” she screeches after them. “I’ll catch you sooner or later! You won’t even see it coming!”

“Not while she wears _those_ heels,” Chat mutters.

Marinette ignores him. This akuma is different than previous, and she suspects it may be a level of danger similar or at least comparable to the Mime. There is no way Chat can fight her off without Ladybug, and there’s no chance he’ll leave Marinette behind either, not with the akuma targeting her specifically.

Their hands are both magnificently tied, so the only option left is to run.

Luckily Chat seems to have a similar train of thought because he quickly catches up, pulling her down a few more flights of stairs, picking a door for one of the lower levels and dragging them out into the building.

He stops and Marinette nearly crashes into him, and she barely gets a moment to regain her balance before he recovers and they are off again. Chat scans the walls as they run, his expression focused and mouth set in a firm line, no playful smile in sight.

“I know this place,” he calls back to her, yanking her around another corner. A blast of light slams into the wall closest to her head, and the heat leaves behind a dark mark. Marinette yelps and runs a bit faster.

“Then hurry up!”

At long last Chat drags her to rather empty hall but for a few doors, most leading into dark offices. She almost thinks them empty, but then she spies a pale face pressed against the glass, watching them with wary eyes, and she understands why the building is so quiet so early in the afternoon.

Chat chooses a door at random, throwing open the wooden door to reveal a small cluttered closet crammed full with brooms and buckets. Marinette slips inside and scoots over when he follows her. He presses her against the wall and closes the door silently, not daring to leave it open.

It is completely dark but for the slight sliver of light beneath the door. The air, dusty and stale, tickles her throat with every shallow breath. Her lungs are screaming, the weak gasps not giving her the oxygen she so dearly needs after such a sprint.

But it is either breathe or die, so Marinette presses her face into Chat’s shoulder to muffle the sound of her raspy breaths. Blood roars in her ears, and her heart is beating so quickly she thinks it might be trying to break out of her chest, but her breathing, at least, is silent.

A moment passes, and then Chat’s face is pressed into her collarbone, his breath warm and as rapid as hers. Together they huddle against the back of the closet and make as little noise as possible, too frightened to worry about personal space.

She can hear the click of the akuma’s shoes and the soft swish of heavy fabric against the tiles. Marinette stares at the shadowed outline of the door and prays their silence is enough.

“Where did you go?” the girl calls out, her voice hard. “I know you’re here! I _saw_ you.” Her voice lowers to a snarl, the words spat viciously. “Come out! Come out or I’ll _make_ you!”

A burst of light blooms beneath the door and roarsas it slams into cool metal, terrified screams rising and falling rapidly from the other side. The girl laughs and the light flashes again, more doors being hit, more people screaming.

“You can’t hide from me!” she shrieks, and this time the light finds them, hitting their wooden door and making the wood glow like embers, the slightest movement threatening to set it aflame. “I am the Lantern! I am light! I’ll find you and I’ll make you _pay_!”

A heavy silence falls as her last words echo, the air taut with fear, every occupant of the hallway collectively holding their breath. With a snarl the Lantern moves forward, leaving the ruined hallway behind, the click of her footsteps against the tile sharp and striking.

Cautious but no less cocky, Chat gives a low whistle. “Wow,” he whispers, and even in the dim lighting Marinette can see his crooked smile. “She needs to chill.”

Gasping in deeper breaths, relived that the danger has passed, Marinette shoves him. She is very suddenly aware of just how close they are, but ignores the butterflies churning in her stomach in favor of her usual annoyance.

“That was awful,” she hisses back, but Chat’s smile just stretches wider.

“Paw-ful?”

“Oh, shut _up_.”

He laughs, quieter than normal but just as wickedly pleased as he usually is. She can feel his body shake with the sound, his pulse thrumming beneath her fingers, and Marinette is suddenly thankful for the darkness that hides her involuntary blush.

Chat has a nice laugh, and she wonders how she never noticed it before. It’s a soft laugh, cheeky and playful, but warm like hearth fire. It’s the sort of laugh that makes her want to smile, makes her want to do crazy things if it means she can hear it again.

Marinette gives herself a little shake. _Focus_ , she tells herself. _There’s an akuma out there, and I can’t transform. This isn’t the time._

“Can we get out?” she asks, shifting into a more comfortable position. The akuma won’t be gone for long, and if there is anything Marinette truly can’t stand, it’s being confined. Plus, she has a sinking feeling that in the absence of Marinette, the Lantern is taking out her rage on other civilians.

Chat eyes the door warily, slowly climbing to his feet with cat-like grace. The wood has cooled somewhat, and only a few flecks of word grain still glow, but when he brings his hand closer he winces at the brush of heat, his whole body shying away from it.

“Not yet.”

She lets out a shaky breath and quick nod, curling in on herself. Now that she can breathe properly she is calming down from her earlier panic, but her lungs ache fiercely and her whole body feels like one giant bruise.

Chat settles back down beside her, his warmth and comfort welcome even if his cheeky smile is not. “Why? Feline cramped?”

“This isn’t funny,” Marinette insists, but finds herself biting back a smile of her own. Ladybug would smile, but Marinette can’t be Ladybug right now, not with Chat Noir so close and knowing her so well. “Why did you follow me in here, anyway? Don’t you and Ladybug usually go out and fight?”

“She’s after you,” Chat explains, leaning back against the far wall and by consequence closer to Marinette. She feels heat rise to her cheeks. “If I fought her there, she’d have thought you were in one of the rooms—and then you’d really be in trouble.”

He turns to her, his hair brushing briefly against her cheek. It’s as soft as it looks, well cared for and silky smooth, and her skin tingles from the accidental contact. She resists the urge to scratch at it. His returning smile helps distract her—his teeth are a pale gleam of white in the gloom, and even though she can’t see him she can clearly picture how he looks: green eyes crinkled and glittering with laughter, brow loose and tension-free, smile painfully wide and shoulders shaking from suppressed laughter.

“Don’t worry, Princess. Your knight will guide you to safety, and then my Lady and I will douse that lantern’s flame.” He laughs, unable to hold it back, and something in her warms at the sound even as her heart drops. “You’ll be home in time for dinner!”

She gives him a strained smile, trying to ignore the thought weighing heavily on her mind. If she doesn’t get away soon, there will be no Ladybug to help him. And then where will they be?

If he notices her unease—and he must, for unlike her he actually has some semblance of night vision—he doesn’t mention it. She feels him shift, the fabric of his suit rubbing against her jacket as he stands again, shuffling carefully to the door.

“Okay,” he whispers, his hand resting suddenly on hers and making her jump. His breath is hot against her face. “I think it’s safe. Stay behind me in case I’m wrong, though.”

Marinette nods, carefully shifting behind him, the weak light almost completely blocked out by his form. She can just see the outline of his staff and hear the soft thud of him poking the door, and then, having deemed it safe, he quickly pushes it open.

The sudden light and rush of clean air makes her gasp, and she blinks rapidly to clear her vision. The hallway is scorched and smells faintly of smoke, and guilt crawls up her throat. The doors are melted where the unburning fire had touched them, and she can see terrified faces peeking out at them through the office windows.

Chat lightly touches her shoulder to get her attention, his smile small but sincere. He’s an idiot for not leaving her here and going ahead, but he’s a noble idiot, and Marinette feels a sudden rush of affection for him.

He thrusts his staff into the air like a sword, the other hand propped on his waist, his head tilted _just_ so. She can almost see the imaginary cape flowing behind him, and this time she doesn’t bother to hold back her smile.

“Let us go, Princess! To safety!”

“Lead the way, kitty,” Marinette offers, and for a moment she forgets herself, a small smirk curling her lips, grinning up at him as she has done so many times before behind the mask.

Chat blinks, startled from his play, and she realizes her mistake. The smirk drops and her amusement fades, and her nervous laughter, too loud and shaking to be natural, fills up the silence.

“S-sorry! I just, ah, it just came out…!”

“Y-yeah,” Chat says, shaking his head, but his smile is tentative and dare she say it— _curious_ , and that scares almost as much as the Lantern does. A curious Chat is never a good thing.

To her relief he seems to pass it off as a coincidence, gesturing for her to follow as he heads back to the stairs. She trails after him, making sure to be just a tad slower, and maybe look a bit more fearful than she feels. A normal civilian would be afraid, she reminds herself. She just has to act normally, and hopefully he’ll never think of it again.

Normal. Right. She has a feeling this endeavor will end similarly to her attempts to ask Adrien out—which is to say, disastrously.

“You coming?”

Chat is smiling again, shoulders loose and eyes glittering like he hasn’t a care in the world. It’s almost endearing.

She nods at him. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

With one last lingering look, an indiscernible emotion flickering over his face, Chat turns and vanishes through the door. Marinette pauses briefly but follows, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. As much as she appreciates what Chat is doing, or at least the thought behind it, the longer she lingers here the longer Ladybug will be absent.

She doesn’t think they can afford that.

She tries to put this thought out of her mind as she and Chat creep down the staircase, each step feather-light on the echoing metal. Every clang makes her jolt, and she bites her lip until she draws blood to keep herself from reacting.

Marinette hates hiding. At least when she fights she knows where the opponent is, and can hold faith in her own ability to match their attacks. Being forced to play helpless civilian galls her, and the suspense is slowly shaking her confidence, every scare chipping away at her self-control.

It’s a relief when they reach the ground floor without incident. She wipes the blood off her lips before Chat can see—she really has got to stop with that habit—and sets back her shoulders. She’s startling to dislike the Lantern more and more for putting her in this situation in the first place.

Chat swings the door open, both of them cringing when a long creak rises from the unoiled hinges. The lobby of the office building is remarkably empty, but a closer look around reveals why. The room has been completely trashed—windows broken, flowerpots shattered, the small sitting room overturned and scorched black. The smell of smoke still lingers, making Marinette’s stomach turn, but there is no fire. The Lantern has been through here, and even though that should be relief—after all, it’s not likely she will return—something about the scene feels off.

 Chat doesn’t share her unease, if the way he practically saunters out into the open with impish smile firmly in place is anything to go on. He swerves around a shattered piece of modern art, once beautiful and now reduced to broken bits of sharp pipe, tapping it lightly with his staff and waving cheekily to her.

“Looks like we’re in the clear, Princess! C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

She nods, picking her way through the debris to his side. The room is eerily silent besides the scuff of her shoes against the tile, and despite Chat’s nonchalance she can’t help but feel they are _missing_ something.

Marinette hasn’t survived this long as Ladybug by not listening to her instincts. She races by Chat to the double doors leading outside, ignoring his surprised yelp when she almost slams into him. Her heartbeat is loud and insistent in her ears, and as she wraps her fingers around the handle a chill runs down her spine.

Too late she sees the ash dusting the wooden frame, and the metal handle burns fiercely against her scraped palms. She yanks them away, her skin blistering in the sudden brush of cold air. She can hear Chat yelling now, not bothering to keep his voice down, approaching her, but a flash in the corner of her eye steals her attention away.

Marinette turns from the blocked exit and stares numbly at the blinding light heading straight for her.

 


	2. Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cornered in the lobby, Marinette and Chat are forced to fight the Lantern head on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the fight scene! This is where the "graphic descriptions of violence" warning comes in. It's not too bad, but be warned that there is some possible brutal stuff in this chapter, mostly near the end.

**[2 years ago]**

“I wish you’d stop doing this,” Ladybug says through grit teeth, hands steady as she wraps the thick bandage around his blood-soaked arm. “God, Chat.”

He laughs weakly, wincing when she pulls the binding too tight. His face is noticeably paler, and his breath is shallow. There is no regret in his eyes, not even a flicker of it, and the lack of it makes her heart hurt. She wishes he did regret it. It would make things so much easier.

“What, no thank-you kiss?” he asks, a pale imitation of his usual smile pulling at his lips. “C’mon, Lady. I couldn’t just let you get hurt.”

“You could’ve let me try and defend myself—”

“There wasn’t time.”

“I know there wasn’t time!” she snaps, and unintentionally yanks on the bandage, making him yelp. She immediately lets go, guilt rising. “Sorry.”

“’S okay,” he mumbles, letting his head fall back against the wall. The air is freezing cold, rain drizzling outside their make-shift shelter under the canopy of an empty shoe store. The wind blows the droplets beneath their refuge, soaking through their suits, beading on their skin.

Chat keeps shivering, involuntary shudders wracking his small body. She makes sure to keep close to him, sharing their heat as she returns to bandaging his arm. This time she makes sure to be gentle, to wrap the bandages as secure and tight as they can be without pressing the gauze too forcefully against the wound.

“I know there wasn’t time,” she admits softly, refusing to look at him. “I just… you don’t always have to be the one to take the hit. You do it all the time, Chat. For me, for civilians… you have to be more careful. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself to save someone.”

“I get it.”

He doesn’t, or he wouldn’t be saying that. She takes a deep breath, pressing her lips together tight. She wants to scream. “Chat—”

“I do!” he insists, and when she looks up his distressed gaze captures hers. He looks at her imploringly, begging her to understand. “I get it,” he repeats. “But, well—we’re a team, aren’t we? So I’ll watch your back and you’ll watch mine, and that way neither of us will ever get more than scratches.”

Scratches, he calls them, but they both know this one will scar. If this is a scratch, what is a wound? She’s already taken to wearing long sleeves to hide her own scars, the curved one on her shoulder and an ugly line, pale and splotchy on her forearm. If those are scratches, what sort of mark would a wound leave?

He must see the gloominess on her face because he nudges her with his shoulder, concern shining in his eyes. “It’s a promise,” he offers tiredly. “We’ll… we’ll always be okay, so long as we watch each other’s backs.” His eyes roam her face, searching for something she can’t fathom.

“Deal?” he asks, voice small. He’s probably her age. He sounds like it. Neither of them are much more than children, but here they are, fighting monsters and escaping injury by the skin of their teeth.

It is a shaky promise, a weak one. What if one day they are separated? What if one day they slip up? They're only kids. Only children. And this is a world they have only just entered.

Ladybug forces a smile and squeezes his shoulder. They both pretend her hand isn’t shaking.

“Deal,” she says.

-

**[Present Time]**

Marinette throws herself to the floor with seconds to spare.

By some miracle her instincts react just in time, and she hits the cold tile just as the light slams against where she’d stood not a moment ago. Her shoulder aches from the rough landing, and her hands are killing her, but Marinette is alive.

To her relief no attacks follow that first attempt at ambush—Chat reacts as any hero with a few years’ worth of experience would, throwing himself into battle without a second’s hesitation. His only pause is to see if Marinette is all right, and then he pays her no more mind, completely swept up in the battle taking place.

With a furious cry he launches himself at the Lantern, staff gripped firmly in his hands and swinging ruthlessly. She ducks under it, darting forward to strike, but he flips over her head with ease, staff shrinking and separating into two batons. He lands lightly and rolls, lashing out at her feet and catching an ankle, and the Lantern falls with a surprised cry, the light blast she’d been creating slipping from her hold and slamming up into the ceiling.

Debris rains down, and Marinette scuttles away, one eye on the fight and the other scanning her surroundings for a weapon. She finds a large bit of broken wood and hefts it in her hand; it would make a good projectile.

She waits until their focus is diverted away from her again, worry increasing as the fight drags on. Chat is used to fighting with a partner, with _Ladybug_ , and sooner or later that dependency is going to bite him, and the Lantern will gain the upper hand.

She cannot let that happen.

Marinette closes one eye and aims, carefully pulling back her hand. The rough wood is torture on her burned and bleeding palms, but she ignores the spasms of pain best she can.

The Lantern lunges and Marinette reacts, letting the piece fly with an aim borne from years of handling her yoyo. She doesn’t miss—the wood slams into the side of the Lantern’s head, and she stumbles, mouth dropping open in surprise and a hand reaching for her head.

With a triumphant yell Chat swings, but either the Lantern is too quick or he too late to react to the sudden opening, because one minute her friend is reaching for victory and the next he is being brutally blasted back, slamming through the broken pipe art and into the wall beyond it.

Marinette cries out, horrified, but she is too far away and the Lantern too close, stumbling towards her fallen friend with a pained laugh bubbling from her throat. Chat is stirring, eyes fluttering open, but the Lantern seizes her chance with a desperation only the akuma victimshave, reaching out her painted hands and placing her palms flat against his eyes.

A bloodcurdling shriek rises from Chat’s lips and he throws himself back, slamming his head into the wall with a sharp cry. The Lantern is laughing, pale light whipping away from Chat to curl around her, fading into her skin.

The light seems to rejuvenate her: her skin glows, her wounds heal over, and a new luster seems to coat her from head to toe. She cackles and spins away, and fallen beads from her dress fly up and reattach themselves to the heavy yellow fabric, seemingly immobilizing but somehow surviving her fist fight.

“They took the light of my life away,” she croons. “And so I have taken _your_ light. I will be the only light! The only lantern!”

Chat gasps put a pained breath, his hands pressing against his eyes. His feet kick out but this time the Lantern dodges, light cloaking her hand and hardening into claws. She grins, striking at his face. He stumbles away, but not soon enough, for one long clawed finger catches his shoulder and rakes down his back.

He yelps, slipping on his feet and falling hard with a pained yelp. Marinette cries out wordlessly, aching to go to him, but a sharp glance from the Lantern stills her in her tracks.

“Do not think,” the Lantern hisses, standing tall and proud over Chat’s fallen form, “that I have forgotten about _you_.”

“No!” Chat shouts, but the Lantern ignores him, turning her sights back to Marinette. He is injured, and both the Lantern and Hawk Moth know that there will be no more danger from him.

Marinette is alone in this fight.

The first burst of light booms above her head, and Marinette jumps away, landing on her hands. She intends to use the momentum to push herself up and out of danger but her skin screams and she drops hard onto the floor, her palms swollen and turning a molted red. She’d forgotten about her injuries.

Claws rip through the floor towards her and she rolls, tucking her injured hands close to her chest and flat out sprinting to where Chat lies, barely managing to keep her feet among the obstacle course of debris and broken tile.

The Lantern slams into her before she can reach him, weaponized fingers brought up to her face, but Marinette brings up her elbows and slams it onto the girl’s temple, and she drops with a scream of pain too human to be comforting. Marinette pushes the writhing form off her and practically falls into Chat, who hisses loudly and makes to attack her.

“Chat!” Marinette cries out, alarmed, and he seems to stumble, his fingers unclenching and a mix of emotions flashing over his face: fear, horror, confusion.

“Marinette?” he asks, voice breathy with pain, arm still pressing against his eyes, “Marinette, you have to run!”

“I can’t get out,” she admits helplessly, climbing unsteadily to her feet and pulling on his free arm. “She welded the door shut with her heat-light blast thing, I can’t… we have to find another way! She’s getting up, we have to…” she trails off when he fails to move, when his hand remains pressed against his face. She remembers the victims she saw earlier, weeping and moaning and all, each and every one, with their hands over their eyes.

“Chat,” she whispers, “what did she do?”

“I don’t know,” is his reply, shaky and uncertain and painfully young. “I don’t know what she did but I—” He stops, breathing heavily, letting his arm fall, eyes screwed shut. “But I can’t _see_.”

He opens his eyes and Marinette sucks in a sharp breath, horrified at the sight. His iris is empty. There are no burns like she’d feared, but somehow this is almost worse. His pupils, slit like a cat’s and the most expressive part of his eyes, are gone.

He seems to sense her horror, a stricken look passing over his face as his hands fumble blindly to her shoulders. “What is it?” he asks, and his clawed fingers dig into her skin. “What did she do?”

Marinette opens her mouth, mind blank and thoughts gone dark, but before she can even attempt to reply a hand grips her hair and yanks her back. She screams, the sharp pain sudden and unexpected, landing awkwardly on the rocky ground and blinking teary eyes up at the Lantern.

The akumatized girl leers back, her hair a tangled mess and smile like a crescent moon carved upon her features. She reaches out her hand and the beads on her dress dangle. Small, dark reflective beads, like the pupil of an eye. The sight makes her feel sick.

“Say goodbye to the light,” the Lantern hisses, and her hand darts like a snake toward her face.

Marinette falls back on instinct, no longer caring about holding back for the sake of the victim. Chat is blinded and she is trapped, and there is nothing else left to do but fight until she breaks.

She lashes out first, slamming her forearm to block the hand with a vicious sweep. The Lantern stumbles, taken off-guard, and Marinette brings up her legs and kicks out, catching the other girl in the stomach and sending her falling back.

“Marinette!” Chat shouts, and she wavers, uncertain, brought out from her concentration by the fear in his voice. “Marinette, run!”

“Chat,” she says, because he is an idiot and a fool and her best friend, and she really can’t afford distractions right now, “please, shut the fuck up.”

She rolls into a crouch, making sure to keep herself between the akuma and Chat. Vendetta or no, Hawk Moth will instruct the Lantern to take Chat’s Miraculous, and there is a snowball’s chance in hell of Marinette allowing that to happen.

She pushes up to her feet and slides back into a stance, wishing desperately for her weapon. Her foot taps against something on the floor, which pings in the soft irritating way metal does when you drop it on tile. She looks down. Chat’s staff, abandoned after his fall, shines in the light.

It is not a yoyo, but it _is_ a weapon, so she toes it off the floor and rolls her wrist experimentally, trying to get a feel for it. It feels _right_ in her hands, not in the way her yoyo does, like it was made for her and is more an extension of herself than a weapon; it is instead right in a more symbolic way, as if by using Chat’s weapon she is defeating the akuma the way she always does: with Chat by her side.

The Lantern attacks again, rage twisting her pretty features into something ugly and cold. Marinette sets her shoulders and swings moments before those deadly claws skewer her through, throwing her whole weight and every last bit of her frustration into the blow.

The staff hits the girl’s jaw with a sharp crunch, snapping back her head and forcing her to stumble away. Something gives beneath the metal, bone breaking. The Lantern leans back and wails, blood dribbling from her mouth, rage and hurt warring across her face as her hands cup her shattered jaw.

Marinette doesn’t hesitate, not allowing herself to feel guilty as she throws herself atop the girl and scrambles at her neck. She finds the smooth, almost plastic cord and the solid stone hanging from it like a droplet and yanks, hard. It snaps evenly but the Lantern shrieks again at the sudden burst of pain, the metal clasp no doubt biting into her neck.

Marinette climbs heavily to her feet again, swings the chord of the necklace around her hand once to secure her hold on it. She rests one hand on the wall and brings back the other, and with a furious yell smacks the crystal necklace against the smooth stone.

It doesn’t break, not that she expected it too, so she grits her teeth and keeps swinging. Someone is screaming—whether it is herself or Chat or the Lantern, she can’t tell—and the sound rings in her ears, an insistent buzz bordering on white noise, blurring her vision and making it hard to think.

She swings again, harder, angrier, remembering the look on Chat’s face when he’d crashed into the wall, when the Lantern’s claws had dug viciously into his skin. The crystal remains intact, but cracks are starting to show. She takes a breath, making to swing again—

A hand grips her forearms and wrenches her away. She struggles, slamming her elbow back, the Lantern squealing in her ear. The akuma’s skin burns like fire, her eyes empty and hallow and cold despite the anger that clouds her features.

The Lantern holds tight so Marinette takes a breath and slams bodily into her, pushing her shoulder into her gut and slamming her foot against her shin. The Lantern’s nails dig into her skin and pull, leaving little trials of red behind, irritated and burning and painful, blisters rising from the burn on her arm—but she lets go, and with a triumphant yell, Marinette swings the crystal down on the wall one last time.

It shatters like a glass window hit by a projectile, pieces blown out everywhere, sharp and sudden and possibly deadly. It strews in multiple pieces across the floor and a black butterfly pulls away from it, fluttering up into the air.

She pulls her hand down to her side for her yoyo and finds empty air.

Too late Marinette realizes her mistake, and her moment of hesitation costs her, the akuma fluttering up through the glass and disappearing from sight. She stares numbly at the ceiling until a small hand waves in front of her, Tikki hovering worriedly before her.

“Tikki, I—”

A quiet whimper draws her attention and she stares down at the Lantern, who is slowly and painfully climbing to her feet. Her heels are broken, the black beads on her dress clattering to the floor with a sound similar to falling rain. As each hit the ground they evaporate into black smoke, swirling away out into the open air, some of it even enveloping Chat. Blood dribbles steadily from the Lantern’s lips; her chin is puffy and swollen, her eyes red and angry.

She smiles at Marinette, perfect teeth stained red with blood, and vanishes away into light. No words are said, but Marinette gets the message. She hasn’t purified the akuma. This fight is not over.

“Marinette?”

She turns away, glancing over at Chat. He is standing now, shoulders hunched uncertainly, favoring his left leg and careful not to move his arm too much. His gaze is unfocused and fearful, head cocked in an attempt to hear better.

“I’m here,” she says, and his head tilts in her direction, relief written across his face.

“Thank god,” he whispers, sagging against the wall. “The Lantern?”

“Gone.” She swallows hard, feeling irrational tears well up. She’s so frustrated she could scream. “I’m—there was a black butterfly, when I broke the necklace—it flew away, I’m sorry, I couldn’t…”

It is as much an apology to him as it is to Tikki, who rushes close to nuzzle her cheek, the silent affection easing her guilt. Marinette feebly cups her hand around her friend, relieved at her lack of anger, but her eyes lingering on her partner.

Chat shakes his head, smiling weakly. “It doesn’t matter. Ladybug and I—” he stops, wavering, then forges on, “Ladybug will find it soon. I’m just glad you are okay!” His smile fades. “I’m sorry, Princess. Looks like your knight ended up being pretty useless. Though, how did you…?”

“Oh.” For a horrifying moment she blanks, but Tikki is quick to come to her rescue, flicking down to where Chat’s staff lies discarded on the tile. She kneels, picking it up, offering it guiltily to him before she realizes he can’t see it and brings it close to her chest instead. “I… kind of used your staff-thing? Um. I hit her with it. I think I broke her jaw?”

Chat gapes at her. It’s kind of funny, but she suppresses the giggles. She can be hysterical later. “You… hit her with my staff?”

“Yeah…” she glances down at it, suddenly self-conscious. Too late, she realizes that it’s not a very Marinette thing to do. Does he think her strange? Or overly violent? She hopes not. “Um, sorry for using it. And, uh, she kind of spat some blood on it when I, ahaha, hit her… so it’s a bit gross now. Um.”

Chat starts to laugh, low and long and hard. He presses his good hand against his mouth but the action does little to stifle his high-pitched giggling. She blinks at him, too stunned to do more than stare.

After a few minutes of helpless laughter he finally straightens, his good arm wrapped around his middle. “I think I may have underestimated you, Princess,” he says, still giggling like a child. The fit of mirth has undoubtedly jarred his injuries but the wide smile stays etched on his face.

She feels heat rise to cheeks and ducks her head to hide her smile. “Thanks…”

She watches as his laughter dies off, feeling worry seize her chest tight at the discomforted look that replaces it. She moves to his side, placing an unsure hand at his shoulder. He shudders at her touch, flinching away and then biting back a cry of pain when the motion jolts his injuries.

She can’t leave him like this. The akuma is still out there, and he wavers on his feet. Besides which, he is Chat Noir; her partner, her best friend, someone she trusts with her life on a daily basis.

He’s her partner, he’s hurt, and there is no way Marinette is going to leave him alone in this state.

She carefully guides his arm to drape around her shoulders, supporting his weight when he slumps against her, breathing labored and hissing through grit teeth. This close, she can see his pupils have returned, but they’re so constricted and small she knows that it will be some time before he can see again, if he will see again at all.

She squeezes his hand, ignoring the ache of her own injured palms. She hopes, desperately, that she hasn’t made a huge mistake. If Chat Noir lost his sight because of her own desire to protect her secret, then she doesn’t know what she would do.

“C’mon, kitty,” she murmurs, voice soft. “Let’s go.”

 


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having survived their first confrontation with the Lantern, Marinette and Chat try to keep themselves together and protect their secrets at the same time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter became a few thousand words longer than intended which.... is the only excuse I have for why it took so long, haha.

**[Two and a Half Years Ago]**

The pictures don’t do him justice.

The first time she meets Chat Noir, this is the first thing she notices. She’s heard of him, if only briefly—a boy of shadows and quips in comparison to her shining luck and professionalism. The pictures of him are almost always blurry, the boy caught in the midst of motion, his arms flung out and smile recognizable only by the gleam of his white teeth.

When she meets him in person, the first thing she sees are his eyes. They are two different shades of green, unearthly and shining and yet unbelievably kind. His smile is what grabs her next—thin and razor-sharp, with an edge of wicked humor that makes her bristle in preparation for some horrible joke. There is something about him, from the way he stands to the way he tilts his head that just _screams_ a troublemaker.

Here is someone who can never be bound, never be caught. It’s fascinating and worrying in equal measure.

The boy is the first to speak, his voice high and boyish, breathy from his run. “The pictures don’t do you justice, you know.”

Ladybug startles, surprised and a bit taken aback, almost embarrassed at the unintended echo of her own thoughts. “I… what?”

He grins at her, blond hair falling haphazardly about his face as he ducks his head in a nod. It is a surprisingly genuine expression for such a cheesy line. “You are far more beautiful in person, miss.”

Ladybug scowls before he can see her blush, suddenly thankful for the darkness that hides her burning cheeks. “Thanks, I guess,” is her wry response, but she really is pleased, and some of it must show, because the boy’s smile only grows. “Do I get name, flatterer?”

His smile shifts into a smirk and he drops into a low bow. “Flatterer? I speak only the truth, miss!” He looks up, green eyes glittering. His cheeks are flushed pink, though Ladybug cannot think of why. “My name is A—Chat. Chat Noir, my dear mademoiselle.”

“Chat Noir,” she repeats dryly, her eyes flickering to the stiff fabric ears perched upon his head. She can’t quite help the smile that tugs at her own lips; his joy is infectious. “It’s nice to meet you in person.”

She holds out one gloved covered hand and yanks him upright before he can kiss it, her smile growing at the exaggerated pout on his face. “Call me Ladybug.”

Chat laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Of course, my lady.”

-

**[Present]**

For as long as Marinette can remember, her parents have always been accepting.

The bakery has been her safe haven ever since she was a child, skinning her knees on sandboxes and running home with blood running down her legs. Home was where Mom would wait with a patient smile and steady hands. Home was stinging disinfectant and band-aids the color of bubblegum. 

When Marinette, seven years old and full of fiery passion, declared that she wanted to be a fashion designer, they had smiled. Her father grinned widely and made fashion-influenced cookies for the rest of the week, and her mother started teaching her how to sew. Marinette can still vividly remember the glow of happiness in the pit of her chest each time she spotted the cookies, and the pride she'd felt upon completing her first project—a pale pink scarf with messy stitching but solid weave.

Her parents have always been supportive of her and her choices. Marinette has never questioned it, and never dared pushed the boundaries of this support. There is a very good reason as to why she keeps Ladybug a secret from all but her and Tikki.

And yet, for the first time, she thinks she may have pushed too far. A bleeding hero is different from skinned knees, and the choices she has made aren't as innocent as they used to be. 

Maybe it is the way her mother is staring at them, a hand over her mouth and eyes wide, her iris swallowed up in the all-consuming white of her sclera. Maybe it is the way her father is standing, stiff and still like a statue, a heavy contrast to his usual liveliness. Maybe it is the way neither speak, only stare; but for the first time, Marinette knows that she has treaded into territory her parents cannot follow and cannot truly comprehend.

"Please," she says, a little desperately. Chat is limp and breathing heavily against her side, barely managing to stand on his feet, most of his weight supported by her. Her hands spasm with blinding pain with every jolting movement. She is tired, and frustrated, and on the verge of tears.

“Please help him,” she whispers, and the _help me_ remains stubbornly stuck in her throat. “He’s hurt.”

The words seem to strike a chord with her parents because the next thing she knows, her father is gently prying Chat from her side, murmuring reassurance when the boy stiffens and makes to attack. Her mother is running her hands over her face, brushing Marinette’s myriad of blooming bruises and still-bleeding scrapes with gentle fingers.

Marinette watches numbly as her father carefully moves Chat up inside the house, away from the public view of the store windows. She feels the ridiculous urge to protest, to fight them both. She wants to see Chat. To have him be taken from her sight unsettles her deeply, makes her breath catch and her hands start to shake.

She starts when her mother’s soft hand runs through her hair, fingers combing out tangles and brushing the drying blood from her black locks. Her mother doesn’t even flinch as the blood flecks across her smooth fingers, her eyes fixed on Marinette’s face. Her mother looks thin and tired, drawn in a way Marinette has rarely seen. She hates that she is the cause of her worry.

“Mari,” her mother says, and her cool hands rest on her cheeks, a relief to the unrelenting heat rushing through her. “What _happened_?”

Once upon a time, Marinette used to tell her parents everything. There had been no secrets between them—Marinette just wasn’t the type. When she met Alya her parents knew that very night, and when she’d punched a boy for trying to pick on Rose it was her parents who first received that tearful, honest apology for breaking the rules.

Marinette wants desperately to tell her. She wants to sit down and explain how scared she was, how terrifying it was, how much it had hurt, how guilty she feels for breaking the girl’s jaw and ripping the necklace off her. She wants their hands to pat her face and their voices to soothe her, and it aches to know she will never be able to truly do that again.

Marinette looks away, unable to meet her eyes, trying to pass it off as lingering trauma. “T-there… there was an akuma attack. I…I got caught up in the middle of it.” She swallows hard, meeting her mother’s gaze now that the biggest lie has passed. “He—Chat Noir—he got hurt. Protecting me. Please, we have to—we have to help him!”

It is clear her mother is unsatisfied with this answer, and she waits for a long pause to see if Marinette will say anything more. Finally she pulls away, and it breaks Marinette’s heart to see that the lingering exhaustion has not left her features; in fact, it has only grown deeper, lining her eyes and weighing heavily on her shoulders.

“Of course,” her mother says, voice soft. “There was never any question of that.” She stops, watching Marinette carefully, and then sighs. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you patched up.”

Marinette nods automatically, still fighting the daze threatening to overcome her mind. She follows listlessly as her mother heads up the stairs, only pausing once she reaches the top step.

Her mother turns, confused and frightened. “Marinette?”

“Chat,” Marinette whispers hoarsely, and then, realizing her slip, “Chat Noir. Is—where did Dad…?”

“The family kitchen,” her father says, coming down the ladder. His usually bright eyes are dull, his voice gruff and worn. The hand he rests on her shoulder is heavy but comforting, and Marinette leans into the touch gratefully, breathing in deep the strong smell of flour and bread that continually haunts their house.

Home. She is home, safe, and the battle is over.

Her mother scans her face and gently tugs her in that direction. “Do you want to see him?”

Marinette swallows hard. “Yeah.”

“All right.”

They walk in together, Marinette struggling not to rush and her mother close behind, ready to steady her should she slip. It would be patronizing if it weren’t practical—every step takes an effort to make, and exhaustion makes it hard to focus.

The first thing she sees upon walking inside is Chat, who leans gingerly against the counter, his eyes closed and breathing faint. He stiffens when they enter, and the relief that swoops in her gut when she sees him is something she’ll never admit to.

“Just me, Chat,” she says, and he relaxes, letting out a quiet breath.

Her mother squeezes her arm and carefully slips out, no doubt going to help her father with gathering first aid supplies. Marinette flashes a thankful smile in her direction before turning back to Chat, taking stock of his injuries with a critical eye.

In the rush of adrenaline and fear that had plagued her in the office lobby, she hadn’t gotten a very good look at him. Now, with the calm of the aftermath settling over her and the bright lights illuminating his form, she can see much better.

It is both worse than she hoped but better than she feared. His suit is ripped and torn, blood shiny on the black material. The skin on his chin is peeling from the heat of the blast that knocked him down in the first place, and she can already see the bruises that will form.

“Well, Princess,” he rasps finally, head tilting her direction. “Is it as bad as it feels?”

She smiles wanly at the thin humor in his voice. “Probably not. Though I haven’t seen most of it yet.” She hesitates. “That heat blast—”

He shakes his head, cutting of her inquiry. “Suit caught most of it. I’ll get a nasty burn on my chest… peeling skin, blisters, the whole deal, but, well, she couldn’t char this cat.”

Marinette relaxes, letting out a breath. “That’s…good. That’s really good.”

He makes an attempt at a smile but lets the conversation drop, tilting his head back against the smooth wall and breathing in slowly, carefully sliding down to sit on the floor. She watches him for a few moments more, gathering her thoughts, forcing herself to stay aware and awake. Her parents will be back soon, likely with more questions, and there are some things she’d rather not have them knowing.

“Chat,” she starts, waiting until she has his attention. “Please don’t tell them what I did.”

Marinette watches the surprise cross his face, his brow furrowing and mouth drawing down into a frown. “But you…”

“Please.”

He quiets, thinking it over, and after a long moment he finally nods, a serious expression on his face. “All right.”

She smiles, and this one feels more genuine, fits better on her face. “Thank you,” she breaths, feeling a weight slide from her shoulders.

He nods at her, pleased but still a bit unsettled by the odd request, but his attention is quickly captured by something else, his head tilting to dramatic levels. “Your parents are back.”

As if on cue, her mother hurries in to the room, two shopping bags in her hands. Her father follows close behind, first aid kit balanced in his large arms, face oddly serious as he sets it down upon the table.

Her mother is all business, setting the two bags down on the counter and regarding them both with a swift eye.

“Now,” she says, and her tone is firm, allowing no arguments. “Time to take a look at the both of you. You, Chat Noir, take off the top of your suit, if you can—I can’t treat injuries with that fabric in the way. Tom—" her voice trembles, but she stops, and then continues as if nothing happened. “Tom, take a look at Mari.”

All three know better than to argue, so all three nod and get to work. Marinette obediently sits down at the kitchen table, trying to hide her wince as her father sits before her and carefully lifts up her hands to get a better look at the damage. The soft brush of the cotton swab against her skin and the brief but sharp sting of disinfectant on her wounds is both familiar and painful, and this time she can’t help the grimace from twisting her features or her teeth from clenching tight.

To distract herself she looks around back to Chat, breath catching when she spies the full extent of his injuries. His chest is bright red and shiny, the flesh obviously damaged but thankfully not nearly as bad as it could have been. His back is another story—a long wound runs from the edge of his shoulder down the side on his back, the flesh raw and bleeding sluggishly.

Her mother is gentle as she cleans the wound, her cloth dabbing quickly at the gash, her face serene in a way that is clearly forced.

“You should be in a hospital,” her mother says, soft and coaxing. Chat twitches, throat working, clearly clawing for an excuse. Her mother doesn’t seem to notice, dipping the bloody rag back into the water and dabbing at the wound again. “You’re lucky that it’s not deep enough for stitches.”

He turns his face away. Marinette watches at his jaw works, his brow furrowing and the fabric of his mask creasing. “I can’t.”

Her mother takes a breath and nods, then, upon realizing the other cannot see her, responds aloud. “If you wish.”

Marinette isn’t sure what to make of his expression—half-guilt and half-grief, nostalgia and remorse warring on what little she can see of his face. “Sorry,” he says. “There’s a mask for a reason, y’know? I’d hate to make it moot point.”

The joke falls flat. Her mother doesn’t respond.

Her father’s hand taps her shoulder; Marinette starts and turns back to him, surprised. “I took care of your hands,” he says, and a quick glance confirms that yes, he has: her hands are cleaned and bound with a secure bandage, the medicine tingly and warm on her skin.

“Oh.”

He nods, not surprised by her monosyllabic response, just holds up the disinfectant and says, quietly, almost like he doesn’t want to know, “Is there anywhere else?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She stretches out her arm, baring the long scraps and blistering wounds the Lantern has left her with, using her other hand to expose her other wounds: the burn on her side, her scraped and bloody knees, the long gash on her leg from where a stray pipe had cut her without her noticing. Her father looks at them all with an empty look on his face, and when he goes to clean her knee his large, dependable hands are trembling.

Marinette watches his face, reading his expression, and looks away, guilt clawing up her throat. She feels like crying again, and presses her lips together tightly to keep them from trembling.

Sometimes she hates being Ladybug. She hates the secrets and what they do to the people around her. She hates having to watch Chat’s face fall with every rebuttal, to see the fear and worry twist her parent’s hearts, to hear the frustration in Alya’s voice, the thinly veiled worry whenever Marinette disappears without warning.

She closes her eyes and clenches her newly-bandaged fists, the ache of tender flesh distracting her from her emotions. She waits in silence as her parents finish patching them up, doing everything she possibly can to avoid thinking about what this is doing to them, how they must feel, what it will mean in the future.

In what feels like no time at all but also far too long, the last bandage is applied and the last bit of salve used. Her father finishes up Marinette’s scrapes first and goes to help her mother with Chat, and Marinette stays where she is, staring aimlessly at the wall.

A cleared throat pulls her back to the real world and she blinks, looking over at Chat. Her parents have left the room, the medical supplies taken with them. She and Chat are alone, so when he speaks, she knows it is her he is addressing.

“Well, that was an experience.”

She snorts, though she doesn’t know why. It’s not at all funny, but she finds herself stifling giggles anyway, leaning against the table to keep from shaking herself out of the chair.

Chat smiles, weak but genuine. “You’ll laugh at that, but not my amazing cat puns?”

She smiles back. “Your puns aren’t at all funny.”

“Lies, I heard you laugh.”

“You have no proof,” she shoots back, and this time he is the one who laughs, a high-pitched giggle that is more hysteria than amusement.

“True,” he admits, his smile growing.

His smile falters a moment later, a usual seriousness falling over his pale features. “Are you okay, though?”

“Um.” She stops. Bloody knees, ruined hands, burns climbing up and down her arm and her side, bruises forming literally everywhere. She’s had her fair share of scars, but this is the first time either of them have ever been so close to being killed. ‘Okay’ isn’t exactly the word she would use. “Yes?”

Chat clearly doesn’t believe her, going quiet again, a despondent look falling over him. It unsettles her. Chat is rarely so silent, so guilty.

“This knight wasn’t very good at protecting you, princess,” he says finally, voice so soft and breathy, she suspects she wasn’t meant to hear it.

Marinette thinks of all the times he has saved her, both as Ladybug and Marinette, how without him she would never be able to defeat the akuma as quickly and as painlessly as she usually does. She thinks about how her own selfish wish to keep her secret safe is what got them in this situation in the first place.

She wasn’t very good at protecting him, either.

Marinette shrugs, looking down and away from him, forcing a cheery lighthearted tone to her next words. “Don’t know about that. It’s mostly just scrapes. I think you did pretty good.”

It works, Chat lighting up, his smile returning. It’s still too thin and tired, too small for someone as wild and free as Chat, but she decides to take what she can get.

“Maybe even purr-fect?” he asks, and she stiffens, throwing a sharp look in his direction. Is he—yep. He’s smirking at her, the _twit_.

“No,” she says, deadpan, and rolls her eyes when he grins wider. It’s not like he can see it.

They fall back into silence, but it is more comfortable now, less tense. The air of fear has been lightened, their nerves soothed by the weak attempts at humor, and even though they are battered, sore, and tired, Marinette finds herself smiling.

Her parents return in due time and her mother ends up shooing Marinette out of the kitchen, sending her over to the bathroom to wash her face. Marinette stands as still as she can as the soft rag scrubs at her skin, washing away the blood. She tries not to squirm when her mother moves on to her hair, making her lean back into a sink to make it easier to wash, her hands carefully threading through every strand to pry the dried blood away.

There is no conversation; neither feels like talking. Marinette is reflective, too tired to truly think—and her mother, she suspects, is running more on autopilot than conscious thought.

When her mother tries to lead her out Marinette shakes her head, wet hair slapping at her bruised cheeks. “I want to stay here for a bit. I… I just need a moment.”

Her mother stops, clearly reluctant—Marinette is starting to believe that the only reason her parents left her alone in the first place was because Chat was there—but eventually nods and shuts the door behind her.

Marinette waits until her mother’s footsteps have faded and then presses a hand to her side, where Tikki has been hiding. The kwami flies out without further prompting, large dark eyes teary and usual smile nowhere in sight.

Marinette smiles for the both of them. “Hey, Tikki.”

“Marinette,” Tikki whispers, and while she doesn’t cry, the look on her face is pure distress. “Oh, Marinette. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she assures, and Tikki gives her a pleading look.

“I’m not Chat Noir,” Tikki says, voice low. She doesn’t sound disappointed, merely pleading. “Marinette, I watched you fight.”

Marinette stares down at the bathroom counter, the granite smooth and dotted with colors. She tries to name them in her head. Red, brown, amber, gold.

“I know.”

Tikki isn’t satisfied with this answer, but thankfully lets it go, flying forward to bop their foreheads together gently. “Why didn’t you call the Miraculous?” she asks gently. “I was waiting for you to. But you never did.”

Marinette flushes, keeping her eyes fixed on the counter. “Chat was _right_ there. He knows me. Ladybug-me. And my weapon—well, it’s distinctive.”

“Yes,” Tikki says. “So why didn’t you use the Miraculous?”

Despite the softness of her tone the words are like a slap to the face. Marinette rears back, her breath catching in her anger. “I _told_ you!”

Tikki is uncompromising, small face blank. It’s almost worse than the rare look of disappointment she’ll sometimes wear, worse than any anger that should be there. “No, you didn’t.”

Marinette stares at her and finally drops her gaze to back to the counter. It’s easier than looking Tikki in the eye. It’s rare that Marinette truly disappoints Tikki, rarer still that she actually drives the kwami to confront her about her actions. It’s not a situation Marinette likes to be in.

“I don’t want Chat to know,” she admits. “I don’t want—anyone! Anyone to know! Because then they can be used to hurt me. Then they can be used against me. Then—they’re in _danger_.”

“Chat can take care of himself,” Tikki counters fiercely. “Don’t you trust him?”

“Of course I do!” Marinette gasps, aghast at the accusation. “I just—I’m not stupid, Tikki.” Her voice quiets, her words low and halted. “I… ever since I became Ladybug, I _knew_ I couldn’t tell anyone. Because me being Ladybug—it’s dangerous. And if they knew…” her voice breaks, and she swallows hard. “It’d be dangerous for them, too.”

“Oh, Marinette,” Tikki says again, and this time she does sound on the verge of tears. “I know. I get it. I just—you both got very close to dying. I know you don’t want anyone else to get hurt, but I can’t lose anot—you. I can’t lose you.”

A soft touch at her forehead draws Marinette’s gaze back up again. Her friend and companion looks more distressed that Marinette has ever seen her, and maybe that explains why Tikki doesn’t pull away, just flickers up to rest atop Marinette’s hair. The kwami’s touch tickles, like static personified, and her forehead itches from where Tikki had bopped her.

“I know you don’t want anyone to know your secret,” Tikki repeats again, after a heavy moment of silence. “But, Marinette—if you are ever in that situation again, please don’t hesitate to transform. Your secret isn’t worth your life, you know.”

Marinette looks down at her bandaged hands. She sometimes forgets how old Tikki is. Moments like these, though, she can hear the age in her kwami’s otherwise high-pitched tone.

“All right,” she says, clenching her hands. The bandages pull taut over her knuckled fists, and she whips her head up to meet her gaze in the mirror. Her eyes are rimmed with red; her cheeks flushed from the recent scrubbing, her lips cracked and her cheeks bruised—but her eyes are full of fire, full of determination.

Her reflection is beaten but alive, and Marinette feels somethings settle inside of her. She feels stronger, more sure of herself. Her secret isn’t worth her life but Marinette will be damned if she ever intentionally lets a situation get that bad again.

“All right,” she says again, firmly, just to hear herself say it. She sees Tikki smile at her in the mirror, relief and affection in her big black eyes, and then the kwami hides back behind her loose hair as Marinette opens the door.

She feels like she can face the world again.

-

Her parents are not in living room when she passes it, nor are they in the kitchen when she peeks her head in. She passes by their door and hear low muttering from inside and moves on, giving them their privacy.

She reenters the kitchen, making a small noise of assent when Chat calls her name uncertainly. Marinette heads to the counter on a whim, taking down the box of cocoa power and two mugs from the top cupboard. She heats up the milk in the microwave and then mixes in the powder, and then the finishing touch—a great helping of whipped cream that covers the whole top of the cup.

Chat is trying and failing not look curious when she heads back over, neck craning and mask crumpled at the forehead as he tries to puzzle out what she’s doing. Marinette settles down by him and taps his shoulder, wincing when he startles.

“Here,” she says, pressing the ceramic mug into his hands. His gloves were removed along with the top of his suit, and she finds it strange to see his hands. His palms are smooth and relatively unmarred but for a few calluses, no doubt the result of his work as Chat Noir. His fingernails are filed and smooth, which surprises her. Chat has never really struck her as the type to care about his appearance.

“It’s hot chocolate,” she explains when he hesitates to drink. “I figured it might help. Chocolate has magical properties.”

He looks doubtful but takes a sip anyway, hmm-ing appreciatively. “This tastes amazing!” he exclaims, sounding delighted. “I love hot chocolate.”

“Me too,” she says, grinning at his enthusiasm. She takes a sip of her own drink; dark and creamy and smooth, just how she likes it. The warmth spreads throughout her body, easing her muscles and warming her toes.

Chat takes another long draw of the drink, face relaxed in bliss. When he finally pulls the cup away Marinette almost laughs, because there’s a white strip of cream on his upper lip and it’s the most ridiculous thing she has ever seen.

“Needs more whipped cream, though,” he remarks casually, and must sense her incredulous (but still amused—he hasn’t wiped away the milk mustache yet) look because he bristles defensively, holding the cup close to his chest as if it can save him from her opinions. “What?”

“I practically _drowned_ it in whipped cream!” she cries out, laughing. Chat makes an exaggerated face at her.

“I don’t need eyes to know there is not _nearly_ enough,” he declares, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. “How on earth can you live with so little?”

“There’s enough to give you a milk mustache," she points out snidely, and snorts when he flushes and wipes it away. “Hah!”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” he complains, and she smirks at him as she stands, heading back over to the counter. As much as she likes to tease him, she’s perfectly willing to give more whipped cream if he wants it.

“It slipped my mind, kitty cat,” she calls back cheerfully, and she can hear Chat’s dramatic sigh.

“Come on, Ladyb—”

He stops. Marinette freezes and the container of homemade whipped cream slips from her numb fingers to clatter loudly on the counter. “W-what?” she asks, voice a strangled squeak. She can’t believe herself. All that drama with not revealing her identity, and she slips up the moment she walks back in the room.

Marinette feels a bit like banging her head against the wall. Good going, self.

“Sorry!” Chat says—more like shrieks, really. “I am—oh my god, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to—Marinette! I meant Marinette!”

“Right,” she says, and clears her throat when it comes out small and strangled. “Right!”

He doesn’t answer her, head resting against his knees like he’s trying to literally will himself out of existence and she takes his embarrassed silence as an agreement to never mention it again.

She brings over the whipped cream bucket as an olive branch, and drops a large spoonful of the stuff in his half drained cup. He startles, looking up at her. His pupils are still worryingly small, but she can actually see them now. He’s getting better. It’s probably only a few hours more until his sight returns.

“You wanted more whipped cream,” Marinette mumbles, taking the spoon and licking some off of it. “So…u-uh, there you go.”

He blinks slowly and then smiles, looking relived. “Thanks, Marinette,” he says, and then determinedly turns back to his drink.

She watches him gulp it down with equal parts disgust and amusement, snickering at the return of the whipped-cream moustache. Sometimes, she can’t believe he’s real.

In an effort to forget the awkward exchange from earlier, Marinette tries to talk with him. While his answers start out halted—either from lingering guilt or perhaps pain from his wounds—he slowly warms up to her, though there remains a distance not unfamiliar but different from the one that exists between him and Ladybug.

She tells him about her classmates and school, if only for something to talk about, and finds herself delighted when he responds with enthusiasm. He doesn’t talk about his friends or family, much to her approval, but he does talk about his opinions, which are relatable and occasionally amusing to hear.

Her parents enter and leave the room at odd intervals, understandably wary of the stranger in their house. As the hour grows later, the visits get more infrequent.

Marinette is completely unprepared for the yawn that overtakes her in the middle of the conversation. A glance at the clock makes her wince—the hour is ridiculously late, to the point where she suspects her parents’ absence is not due to trust but more to exhaustion.

Chat, whose eyesight has been steadily returning, looks at the clock as well and smiles sadly. Despite the easy conversation they’ve been having, Marinette feels oddly cold and stifled, and she watches quietly as he grabs his staff and uses it to climb to his feet.

“I need to go,” he says, and his eyes stare blankly at the clock for a second too long. “It’s getting late, and my sight is pretty much back now anyway.”

“Okay,” Marinette says, and pauses. “Um… will you be okay to..?”

“Hmm?” He starts, distracted from his musings. “Oh. Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Purr-fect, even.”

Marinette doesn’t laugh, the tired undertone leeching away any humor to be had. She studies his face carefully, grasping for an explanation for his sudden mood swing, and it’s not hard to figure it out. They’re both in the same boat, in a way, even if Chat doesn’t realize it.

“Is it your family?” she asks finally, hesitantly. She regrets it when she sees the expression on his face, when her words shatter his smile.

He doesn’t answer and really, there’s no reason to. His silence is answer enough. It’s one in the morning and they’ve been out since late afternoon, and there’s no feasible way to hide the bandages swathing his chest or the shiny burns scattered about his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Marinette says, quiet. She knows it doesn’t mean much, and her apology does little to help his mood, just makes his shoulders slump and smile fade.

“It’s okay.”

Chat walks out the bakery door as silent as a shadow, giving her only a halfhearted wave in goodbye, before disappearing from her view, seemingly swallowed by the looming darkness. She watches his distant form long after he’s vanished from view, bandaged hands gripping her jacket tightly closed and cold wind blowing through her still-damp hair.

When she finally walks back inside and shuts the door, the silence leeches at her soul.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot thickens.... any thoughts?


	4. Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette is looking forward to a stress-free day of boring homework and school after the trouble with the Lantern, but Adrien's unexplained absence grinds all of her plans into dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (late) New Year, my dear readers! Thank you so much for all your support—all those kudos and comments are half of the reason I got this chapter out before the end of January. Sadly, updates will be slow, if only because of finals… but hopefully that’ll be over soon. This is a rather slow chapter, but it’s crucial in order for chapter five—and that one, dear readers, is a doozy.
> 
> Also—I added a short piece onto last chapter, as I completely forgot to do the starting scene… whoops. It’s not plot-related, but I’ve been using them to introduce what the chapter might center around, so…

**[Three Years Ago]**

The day Marinette Dupain-Cheng meets Adrien Agreste, it is a cold, wet, and miserable morning.

The sky has been gray ever since yesterday and only now does it make good on its threat of rain, unleashing its fury on the city below. The water is fast to fall, striking the ground with a loud smack and seemingly rebounding back into the air before another droplet takes its place.

Within minutes it is pouring, and Marinette walks outside with the grim air of one who lives too close to school to justify taking her fancy umbrella but hates to be cold with such intensity it’s a wonder she didn’t steal an umbrella anyway.

She’s positively miserable when she arrives, walking inside the cool building with wet hair and shoes that squeak against the tile. Alya pats her shoulder with a sympathetic wince, and the two huddle down on a bunch as they wait for the bell to ring and signal for them to go to their warm, heated classroom.

This is when she meets him. She doesn’t notice him at first, not until after Chloe does. His entrance is quiet and insignificant, his shoulders hunched near his ears and eyes flickering around with a slightly wide-eyed look, as if unsure of what to do about all these people. She doesn’t notice this, not really, not until Chloe shouts out, “ADRIE!” with enough joy and sickly sweetness to make Marinette grimace, and by then it’s almost impossible to see him under Chloe’s enthusiastic and forceful hug.

When Chloe pulls away Marinette sees messy blonde hair and green eyes so vivid it takes her breath away. The new boy is dressed stylishly, if modestly, and his smile is small and sheepish and _adorable._

“Hey, Clo,” he says, softer and quieter but with a genuine smile tugging at his lips. His voice is kinder than she expected, just as sweet as Chloe’s but unbelievably more sincere.

Alya laughs beside her, elbows her once and says, “Cute, huh?” in a way that makes Marinette flush and shove her back.

“Whatever,” Marinette says, trying not to notice his purposely-messy hair or shining green eyes— _like leaves in the summer,_ she thinks _, pale green but alive—_ and failing spectacularly. “He’s clearly friends with Chloe, so there’s no chance.”

“Still cute,” Alya observes, then sighs dramatically. “But, as usual, you have a point.”

Marinette laughs. Unknown to her, Adrien glances up at the sound, his eyes unwilling drawn to the dark-haired girl crowded on the bunch only a few feet away. She doesn’t notice, but then neither does he when, a few seconds after he turns away, her own eyes linger on him.

(She only really falls in love a few minutes later, when the bell rings and they take their seats and he turns to her and _smiles_.

And despite the dark, gloomy day outside the window, Marinette feels like the sun.)

-

**[December 18 th/Present]**

It’s almost startling how… _mundane_ things are for the next few days.

It had been a dreary Sunday the day Marinette and Chat faced the Lantern, and the Monday after had been so dull in comparison that it seemed to drag by at a snail’s pace, every minute feeling more like an hour. Marinette sleeps until about three in the afternoon, and spends the rest of the day trying to clean up, taking a long shower and getting her injuries re-checked by her fretting but oddly quiet parents.

It’s tiring and a bit lonely, because Alya can’t come due to school and her parents’ desire to keep Marinette away from anything remotely stressful or excitable. Besides, Marinette is half-convinced they’re just afraid to let her leave their sight, which would be okay if they would just _talk_ to her.

It feels a bit like the calm before the storm. She sees the unasked questions in their eyes, and it’s hard to ignore the way her father keeps glancing at her forearm, to the old scar just above the new. Marinette isn’t talking, and with every passing hour her parents grow more suspicious.

By Tuesday Marinette has reached the peak of restlessness, and while it takes a bit to get her parents to agree, they finally, reluctantly, let her go to school. It’s only across the street, after all, and while Marinette doesn’t particularly like school, anything would be preferable to the heavy silence weighing down on her home. Besides, she misses Alya, and if anything could get Marinette to feel like herself again, her fiery best friend is the one.

She waves absently to her parents as she leaves, a good twenty minutes earlier than usual. She needs to speak to the principal about her absence, and she’d rather not rush herself on the stairs. The extra ten just means she gets to avoid Chloe as well.

Tikki is hiding in the crook between her neck and hair, worn down as Marinette cannot currently reach up to tie it. Every time she brushes against Marinette’s neck it tickles, like a million particles of solid light fizzing and popping against her skin.

“You should start coming up with a story to tell them,” Tikki advises softly as Marinette crosses the street. “They’ll ask why, eventually.”

“I guess,” Marinette mumbles, uncomfortable with this turn of conversation, and then sighs. “Oh, I don’t know. What am I going to say?”

“You got caught in an akuma attack,” Tikki offers, her high-pitched voice filled with sympathy. “That much is true. But you know that’s not what I meant, Marinette!”

“I know,” she mumbles, pushing open the school doors with a grunt of pain. She lowers her voice to a whisper even with no one around to overhear. “The old scars, right?”

“There’s no way your dad didn’t see the one on your arm,” Tikki confirms. “And if they found one…”

“They’ll look for others,” Marinette agrees, and sighs. “Plus, they’re never going to let me go out now. After this…”

Tikki doesn’t respond, but she brushes gently against Marinette’s cheek in comfort. Marinette closes her eyes and leans into it, grateful for the support. She waits until the buzzing in her head has faded and her pain dulls to a faint ache, and then she opens her eyes and starts up the stairs to the principal’s office.

It doesn’t take nearly as long as she expects—Mr. Damocles is more than happy to excuse her from any possible strenuous activity, and gives her a pass to leave should her injuries become agitated again. He’s a lot nicer without Chloe there to threaten job loss, Marinette reflects, and when she leaves his office it’s with a smile on her face.

It grows wider when she sees Alya waiting for her, and she braces herself for a hug when she descends. To her surprise, Alya is extremely gentle, her arms firm and tight as they pull Marinette close into an embrace, but careful to avoid any of her injuries. Marinette hugs her back as tightly as she can, breathing in the sharp scent of cinnamon and other such spices that cling to Alya like a shroud.

She feels the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry and stifles it, but Alya knows her too well and pulls away to pat at her face. Her palms are warm and smooth against Marinette’s cold skin, fingers tucking stray bits of hair behind her ears.

“Hey girl, it’s okay. I got you.”

Marinette laughs weakly, tension easing from her form at the sound of Alya’s voice. She sniffs hard and wipes stray tears from her eyes with her good hand, smiling back as best she can. “Hey, Alya.”

Alya grins. The sun shines in her ombre hair, reflecting off her glasses and glittering off her white teeth. She’s warm and bright and so very _real,_ and seeing her makes Marinette feel grounded, truly awake for the first time since the attack.

Alya pats Marinette’s cheek one last time before pulling away, her eyes soft. Later, Marinette knows, she’ll want the details—but for now Alya will let her be, and her silent support fills Marinette with courage. Much like Chat, Alya has always been a source of strength to Marinette. With either of them by her side, she can do anything she sets her mind to, from defeating akuma to getting out of bed on the days where nothing seems to go right.

“C’mon, let’s go in,” Alya coaxes, taking her arm and gently leading her to the classroom. “You won’t believe what happened yesterday. Kim nearly blew up the classroom! I don’t know why they still let him do labs, I really don’t.”

Marinette smiles. “Aw, Alya, he tries.”

Alya snorts and holds open the door for her. Her eyes gleam in the light. Neither of them are really invested in the conversation, but that’s just fine—the chatter is normal and soothing and heals some secret hurt in her heart. “That he does.”

They grin at each other, both on the verge of laughter. Marinette feels lighter, her heart soaring. She really has missed Alya.

They take their seats together, Alya fussing over Marinette and taking over backpack duty, refusing to let Marinette strain her injured arm. Marinette rolls her eyes and lets her, well used to this sort of treatment. Alya is a mother hen of the worst kind.

The next few minutes pass with idle chatter, Marinette keeping one eye on the door for Adrien. Perhaps it’s a bit selfish, but she wants to see him, if only to make herself feel better. She’s pretty sure Adrien’s smile could make flowers grow, or puppies sing, or something equally cute and fluffy.

She almost manages to fool herself into thinking it’s going to be as normal a day as any when the bell rings, shrill and loud, signaling the start of class. The people take their seats. Nino slides into his without a word. The teacher enters with a sigh.

Marinette stiffens. It has to be a mistake, she thinks, because if class has started then—

She stares before her, intent and suddenly afraid though why she does not know why, at the empty seat in front of her.

“Oh,” Alya says. “Adrien’s out again, huh?”

-

Originally Marinette had been looking forward to school, to the drone repetitive teachings of her professors and the time-consuming work they were sure to assign. Her thoughts had weighed heavily on her lately, and for once Marinette had been welcome to the chance to escape her own endless loop of thinking.

Now, with Adrien’s absence confirmed, class takes too long to end.

She isn’t sure why his disappearance affects her so much, especially with Alya’s reassurance that he is probably out sick. Part of it is her long-time crush on him, perhaps—Adrien has always been a bright spot in her day, a shining light to the dull mundanity of civilian life. His smile has warmed her even in her worst moments, and the few times he spoke to her are memories she keeps close to heart, to gush over if need be. Shy, reserved, polite Adrien has always been something Marinette has connected with being civilian, with being _her_.

When the pull of being Ladybug got too much, Adrien has always been her anchor; Adrien and Alya and her parents. They are _Marinette’s,_ not Ladybug’s, and she never lets herself forget it.

Part of it too, she thinks, is because of recent events. She thinks of the Lantern, with her wild eyes and porcelain mask, her dress beaded with pupils, still out there somewhere. She thinks of her parents, with their worried eyes and wringing hands. Of Chat, limping off into the darkness, defeat carved into the slump of his back and the tightness around his eyes, too much pain to be hidden behind a smile.

And so Marinette sits on of her seat, waiting impatiently for class to end, her eyes flickering over to the empty seat constantly. She tries not to think about the Lantern and Chat, but the empty bench strikes the memories from her mind, draws them out and plays them back like an old film. Chat, injured; parents, fearful; the Lantern, free. Mistake, mistake, mistake.

The bell rings for lunch and Marinette all but lunges from her seat, Alya’s firm grip on her shoulder preventing her from actually doing so. Marinette twists, her nerves frayed and ready to snap, but one look at Alya’s face drains away any annoyance.

Everything from Alya’s pinched brows to her pursed lips speaks volumes of her worry, and her grip, while secure, is overly cautious not to jolt any injuries. It makes Marinette feel guilty, and serves to ground her to the present.

“Everything okay?” Alya asks, searching her face. “I know you’ve got it bad, girl, but one sick day isn’t going to justify all that jumping. What’s wrong?”

Marinette sinks in on herself. She’s not a shy girl, never has been—with the exception of Adrien, of course, but then again he’s _Adrien_ , so it’s to be expected—but Alya has the habit of making Marinette act like one, especially when she chides.

“The attack has just got me wound up, is all,” Marinette mumbles, and it’s close enough to the truth that Marinette doesn’t feel so bad about the lie. “I just… I mean, I know he’s probably okay but… I want to make sure. I want—”

Her voice cracks and Alya takes the hint, shushing her gently and cupping Marinette’s face with both hands. Marinette has never been reserved, but Alya has always been one to fall back on tactile comfort. “Hey, its fine, I get it. I should have asked for you, I just…” she hesitates, briefly, and then shakes it off. “Never mind. C’mon, let’s corner Nino and ask him, he’s bound to know.”

Marinette smiles back. “Okay.”

Alya makes her wait until everyone else has left the class, not wanting her to get jostled between the students, but is gracious enough not to comment when Marinette scrambles out the door in a way she really shouldn’t.

It’s actually relatively easy to find Nino, all things considered. Usually he’s by the fields, according to Alya, or in the courtyard, but when they walk outside he’s on the steps instead, lingering outside the doors when they exit.

As they approach, Marinette notices the way he’s hunched in on himself, fiddling with his bubble wand and uncharacteristically scowling off into space. He doesn’t notice them, and jumps when Alya taps his shoulder, nearly dropping his bubble wand and whipping around so fast the headphones spin around his neck.

“Geez, Alya! Warn a guy, will you? You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you,” Alya returns, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like we were being quiet. _You’re_ just spacing out. ”

Nino huffs, but something in his shoulders loosens. “Yeah yeah, whatever. What’d you want?”

Alya smiles at him, which he returns, if weakly. “Nothing much, really. Marinette and I were just wondering if you knew where Adrien was off too.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say. The budding smile on Nino’s face dies away and his earlier look replaces it—pensive, irritant, worried. He looks down and away from them, fixing his eyes back to the ground. “Dunno,” he mutters, and his words are bitter with worry.

Marinette feels her heart sink.

Alya raises both eyebrows, looking surprised. “Huh? But…” she stops at the look on Nino’s face, swallowing back whatever she was about to say.

Nino grins. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’d think because I’m his best friend I’d know, right? Well I don’t. He hasn’t called, texted, or hell, even a letter. He just hasn’t come in. At all. For two days.” He slouches against the school wall, and his expression makes Marinette flinch. “Nil, nada, zilch.”

Alya frowns, drawing away from him, the look in her eyes one Marinette recognizes. It’s the look she fixes on Ladybug almost daily, the gleam of interest whenever a new story pops up. It’s a calculating look, a pointed one, as if she can ferret out all the secrets in the world if she just stares hard enough. “Something else is bothering you though, right?”

Nino blinks at her, looking mildly confused. Marinette steps up, well-used to Alya’s thought process. She’s willing to bet Nino is feeling the same deep, sick-to-your-stomach feeling she is, and he’s probably too out of it to know what Alya means.

“It’s just; Adrien’s probably sick, right? So why are you acting like…” she trails off, biting back the words. _Like he died,_ she had meant to say, but that hits a bit too close to home for her comfort.

Nino sighs heavily and finally shoves the wand and solution back into his pocket, squinting at them through the blinding sunlight. “Ever met Adrien’s dear ol' dad?”

“Once?” Marinette offers. “I won that contest, remember?” She smiles when she thinks of it. Adrien touching her hands. Adrien smiling. His cute, familiar sneeze.

_Sorry, I’m allergic to feathers._

_Like Chat,_ she thinks absently, and feels a chill run down her spine. It’s funny, really. There’s a lot about Adrien that corresponds like that. A lot of Adrien is like Chat, if she ignores how differently they act.

That train of thought makes her uncomfortable, making her stomach churn and her head spin. It’s a strange thought, really, and it brings with it implications she doesn’t like to think about. Chat is her best friend; Adrien, her crush. Surely, if they were the same… surely she would _know_.

She abandons the troubling notion with some difficultly, refocusing her attention back to the real world, where Nino is shaking his head at them.

“Nah I mean, like, personally. Had a chat, that sorta thing.”

Marinette blinks at him. “Oh. Uh, I guess not?” She looks to Alya for confirmation and finds her best friend shaking her head, squinting suspiciously at Nino as if he is a particularly interesting puzzle. She elbows her, because staring is rude, and Alya reluctantly turns her narrowed-eye stare aside.

Nino shrugs, unbothered by the intense stare. “Well, he’s a jerk.”

Marinette pauses. “Do you mean jerk as in, a _jerk_ , or as in—”

“I mean he’s a trash bag of a father,” Nino cuts in, bitterness lacing his tone. “Adrien loves him and all, so don’t you dare ever tell him I said this, but…” he sighs, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets and staring off into space, a scowl pulling at his lips. “Jerk. Grade-A jerk of a father, that’s him, and I can’t help but feel…”

Alya’s eyes light up. “You think he’s why Adrien’s all MIA,” she says triumphantly. Then she darkens, her excitement fading as his words sink in. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah,” Nino says, lifting one shoulder. His air of nonchalance does little to hide the worry in his eyes. “So, you know, I’m overreacting. Can’t help you on this.”

Marinette looks between them, and steps up, smiling bravely despite how ill she actually feels. “Why don’t we go check?” she suggests, and quails when Alya fixes her with a _look_. “Just to make sure, you know? We can take the bus and everything. I’ll be fine, Alya.”

Ala scrunches her nose at her. “Your parents wanted you home—“

“It’s lunch! I’ll tell them I ate at school. We still have two hours, we can make it.” She looks to Nino for backup, who grins at her gratefully. “Just a quick ring to see if he’s okay.”

Alya purses her lips. “I don’t know, Mari…”

Nino jumps in with his usual enthusiasm, his gloom chased away by excitement. “I think it’s a great idea! I can’t go myself, since Adrien’s pops doesn’t like to acknowledge my existence, but if you guys go I’m sure he’ll answer. I’ll just, like, hide behind a bush when you ask or something. It’s perfect!”

“Just to see if he’s okay,” Marinette pleads. “Please, Alya? I’ll let you know if I hurt anything and if you decide it’s too stressful we’ll head right back, I _promise_.”

Alya huffs and rolls her eyes but Marinette has known Alya since they were six years old, and she knows when Alya is genuinely annoyed or just putting on a show. A few seconds later Alya deflates and finally concedes defeat, throwing up both hands in a helpless, _Mari why_ sort of gesture. “Fine! Fine. Let’s go bother Adrien’s dad despite painful injuries and lies.”

“It’s for a good cause,” Marinette says, patting her arm gently in consolation, and feels some of her uneasiness start to ebb.

-

Nino, for whatever reason, pays for their bus tickets. Marinette suspects it’s either a roundabout way of saying thank you or guilt over dragging Marinette around with her injuries. Nino, when questioned, just shrugs and smiles. He’s as distant as Adrien sometimes, but it gets them their tickets, so Marinette doesn’t push.

With a hour and a half left of lunch, the three settle together on the crowded bus, scrambling for seats with a skill borne from years of living in Paris. They sit near the back, to keep Marinette from getting jostled by new passengers, and then resign themselves to the ten minute ride ahead of them.

Nino plays with his phone, his bubble wand stored away in his pocket. Marinette sits perfectly still and stares straight ahead, trying not to flinch eerie time the bus turns a corner or goes over a new bump in the road. Alya gives Marinette a narrow-eyed stare, and waits with mild impatience.

Marinette sneaks a glance at her from the corner of her eyes and winces when Alya’s eyebrow slowly ticks upward. “Uh… yeah?”

Alya huffs a quick laugh, amused at her hesitancy, settling back against the seat and crossing her arms lazily under her chest. “So, do I get to ask for the story now?”

“Uh,” Marinette says, mind going blank. In her bag, Tikki thumps against her leg in a way that just screams, _Told you so._ “Well, I mean, it’s not really—now?”

Nino looks up from his phone. “Yeah, why not? We got a few minutes. ‘Sides, I’m curious too.”

“It’s not really…” Marinette mumbles, and sinks back in her seat. There’s really nothing she can say to distract them, not anymore. “I… may have gotten caught up in an akuma attack.”

Nino flinches, looking both mildly guilty and aghast at this explanation. Alya bites her lip, but doesn’t seem very surprised. “Thought so, from the screams. Did Ladybug…?”

“Screams?” Nino repeats, eyes wide.

Marinette shakes her head, flinching when the bus jolts and slams her back against the seat, her arm throbbing. “No, she didn’t show up. I don’t know why. Uh… Chat did, though! So I was okay.” She pauses, suddenly confused. “Didn’t you know about it? I mean, your LadyBlog…”

Alya shrugs. “I mean, I knew about the attack, but I didn’t know you were a part of it. I mean. I guessed, but I didn’t do much research into it. Your parents weren’t letting anyone come in, and I didn’t know where you were. They seemed kind of freaked, and… well, akuma attacks happen. Missing one won’t hurt. I was…” she quiets, subdued. “I was more worried about you, Mari.”

“Oh,” Marinette says, feeling rather shell-shocked. She feels tears well up again, and forces them down. There’s something deep and precious about being reminded about how much others care about her. “Alya… thanks.”

“It’s cool,” Alya says, and pats Marinette’s hand with a thin smile. “Just don’t hang up on me next time, okay?”

“Okay,” Marinette says, and smiles back.

The bus pulls slowly to a stop. Nino looks up and tugs on Marinette’s good arm, breaking the spell. “C’mon, this is us.”

They exit single file, blinking in the stark sunlight. Marinette cranes her neck, feeling very small in the looming shadow of Adrien’s home. It’s always so big, so open, and so unbearably empty.

“Right,” Nino says, patting Marinette’s shoulder. “Go do your stuff, oh fellow classmates,” he declares, and then meanders off to duck behind some bushes.

“Uh,” Marinette says eloquently, and beside her Alya snorts.

“Guess he wasn’t kidding about Mr. Agreste not liking him,” she says, with some amusement. She links arms with Marinette, pulling her over to the gate. “You wanna ask or should I?”

Marinette blushes, remembering how she’d acted when she’d still thought Adrien would be the one to answer the buzzer. “Oh, shush, I can do it. Go hide behind the bushes or something!”

Alya grins and edges her forward with a wink, before running back to duck behind the bushes with Nino. Breathing past the sudden apprehension coiling in her gut, Marinette reaches out and taps the buzzer, feeling remarkably similar to how she’d felt months ago, delivering Adrien’s present.

A panel in the wall draws back and a camera appears, shiny and expensive. It arches up and then zooms on her face, and Marinette has to physically keep herself from stepping away. It’s just a bit too close for her comfort.

A quiet, static hum fills the air before a sharp, distinctly female voice speaks, words clipped and tone tense. _“Yes? What is it?”_

“Hi!” Marinette says, smiling weakly up at the camera. “Um, I don’t know if we’ve spoken before, but I’m Adrien’s classmate from school. We, uh, were wondering if he was okay? He hasn’t been contacting us—" Nino, really, but the point still stands, “—at all, so…”

There is an uncharacteristic silence on the other end, the woman hesitating for some unknown reason. Her next words a mumble, a half-spoken thought just barely picked up by the mike—a worried, soft and breathy, _“So his friends don’t know about those injuries either, then…”_

Marinette blinks, suddenly feeling very cold despite her many layers of clothing. She swallows, carefully edging closer, her thoughts disjointed and whirling about her head in its own miniature hurricane. “Um, what was that?”

 _“Ah—nothing,”_ the woman snaps, sounding momentarily flustered. _“Adrien is currently unavailable. You cannot see him. Please do not ask again.”_

Something in her dismissive, absent tone rubs Marinette the wrong way. She feels her breath catch in anger, her eyes widening and hands clenching into fists under her gloves, painfully pulling her still-healing skin taut.

“But is he all right?” she insists, barely holding herself back from snapping.

_“You cannot see him.”_

“I don’t need to see him!” Marinette cries, leaning towards the camera and glowering up at the lens. “I want to know if he’s _all right!”_

 _“Adrien is fine,”_ the woman says, her voice the cold, empty tenor of a liar. _“Leave before I forcibly evacuate you from the premises. Good day.”_

The blinking light of the camera goes dark and it disappears back into the false panel. Marinette makes a deep noise in the back of her throat, a harsh grating sound of disgust and frustration, before whirling on her heel and stalking back to where Nino and Alya are standing. Her cheeks are flushed with anger and embarrassment, her teeth grit down on a snarl.

It takes a minute of slow breathing before Marinette feels calm enough to relate the short conversation, and by the end of it Alya is fuming, her eyes flashing dangerously.

“What the hell?” she spits. “She didn’t even give you a straight answer!”

Nino pops his head up, leaves dusting his hat brim and with an equally dark look on his face. “Everyone in that house except Adrien is a monster, I swear,” he grumbles, taking out his bubble solution and mixing it rapidly. His eyes are dark, no hint of laughter to be seen. “That was a waste of time.”

“Tell me about it,” Alya agrees, making a sharp, half-scream of frustration as she yanks her hand through her hair. “Ugh! Now I’m really worried!”

“Yeah,” Marinette says, quiet and complaintive, mulling darkly over the woman’s words. What had she meant by that? What didn’t they know about? What sort of injuries?

It’s a sickening thought. How did it happen? _When_? If it’d been public, she’s certain it would have been on the news, at least. But there’s been nothing. Besides which, who on earth would want to hurt _Adrien_?

_Chat was hurt. Badly. Bad enough there’s no way he could have hid it._

She swallows down the sudden thought, discarding it quickly. It’s impossible, she tells herself. Chat is flirtatious and loud and like the sun: blinding, bright, dependable. Adrien is soft-spoken and polite and heartbreakingly kind, more like the stars in comparison—soft, gentle glow and unbreachable distance.

And yet. They’re not so different if she thinks about it, are they? Chat’s a little taller but then Chat has heels, so that’s a moot point. His hair is longer but that doesn’t mean much—her own hair turns a rather striking shade of blue-black as Ladybug, and the color is almost the same, and his _eyes_ … The few quiet smiles she manages to coax from him, soft and small and exactly like Adrien’s…

“Hey, Marinette?”

Alya’s hand brushes her shoulder, her voice low and soothing, effectively pulling Marinette free from her inner turmoil. She looks up, meeting Alya’s worried gaze with a thin smile.

“Sorry, I’m just…” she trails off, grasping uncertainly for the right word. Frightened? Shocked? Frustrated? Angry at herself, for never noticing something that might have _literally_ been under her nose this entire time?

Alya nods sympathetically. “It’s okay; I know what you mean. I’m sure he’s fine though, you know? I bet that lady was just being rude on purpose.”

It’s a weak attempt at comfort, invalidated by Alya’s own worry, but Marinette smiles anyway. Maybe it is as feeble and insincere as Alya’s own words, but neither is planning on pointing it out. “Yeah, that… makes sense.”

“It’d be nice to know for sure, though,” Nino mutters, low enough that Marinette thinks she wasn’t meant to hear it. Alya slumps. Marinette almost nods in agreement, but then a creeping, sneaky thought worms its way to the forefront of her mind.

 _I_ could _know for sure. If I went as Ladybug._

It’s a bad idea for numerous reasons, aside from the fact it’s effectively breaking the law. She doesn’t even know where Adrien’s room _is_ , let alone if he’s even in the house. Attempting it at all would just be asking for trouble. But she can’t quite shake the thought.

Besides, if Adrien really is Chat… if Chat, who’s she fought side-by-side with for years and has always put himself at risk for her, really is Adrien… and if his dad is as bad as Nino says…

She thinks of the scarf, the one she’d worked on for weeks, the one Adrien still thinks is from his father. She thinks of the small glowing smile on his face, his half-incredulous, half-joyful admission of, “He’s only ever gotten me pens before…”

And in the end the choice isn’t nearly as hard as it should be.

Nino and Alya are both looking at her now, worried about her reaction. She’d been the one to drag them here, she’d been the one who’d marched up and argued after his health. Marinette lifts her head and smiles, and it feels just a bit more real than before.

“Let’s go back, guys,” she says, and only just catches their agreeing nods. Her own voice is distant and far-off in her ears, a quiet murmur of “There’s not much else we can do…”

It’s not a lie, not really. There’s not much they can do. But Marinette, on her own?

They head back to the bus station, uncommonly subdued, but Marinette barely notices. Her mind is half a million miles away, hours into the future.

Tonight. She’ll go tonight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever since that episode where Alya pats Marinette’s head I’ve seen her as one of those… tactile friends. She’s the first to cuddle and her giving comfort consists of face-patting and lots of hugs. Yes.
> 
> Any thoughts on this new chapter? What do you think/hope will happen next?


	5. Chat Noir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette reveals her greatest secret, and in the process uncovers another that will change her world forever--for better or for worse is up to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers--thank you for your reviews and support!! I appreciate every single one, so seriously, thank you!   
> ...and I apologize in advance for this chapter, I really do.
> 
> On a different note, since I forgot to do it earlier: if anyone has any questions regarding this story (or anything, really) my writing blog on tumbr is izaswritings.

**[Sometime in the Future, Undetermined]**

Later, Marinette will look back on that decision. She will review that day—that broken, shattered mess of a day—and regret those thoughts, that plan, the choice she made with her body aching and mind sick with worry.

She will regret it, and she will maybe even hate herself for it, because that choice is what destroys her in the end. Maybe not _her_ , not Marinette, not the clumsy good-natured girl who promised a small spirit her help in saving the world—but it does, in a way, destroy Ladybug. Destroy Chat Noir. Destroy who they have crafted themselves to be, piece by piece, battle by battle.

For that, for them, for those half-hearted reflections of the real people inside—she regrets.

But regret brings her nothing, so Marinette does the next best thing.

She presses a kiss against his forehead, and she apologizes.

-

**[Present]**

Marinette is no stranger to apathy.

She doesn’t like to call it that, of course; it’s such a harsh word, careless and cruel and chillingly empty. She calls it “going through the motions” because that too is true, and far kinder than the harsh, cold word that is apathy.

But in the end apathy is what it comes down to, and it’s what settles over the three of them upon their return to the school. Their visit is a failure, and the weight of their worry burns in their chests until Nino is sick and Alya pale.

The simplicity of the day—the bored droning of their teachers, the listless gazes of the students—unsettles them, and by the end both Nino and Alya are distant and their smiles don’t reach their eyes.

Worry is a terrible emotion, a restless feeling that itches through veins and rings in ears. It holds hearts in a vice-like grip and settles down like gravity on the shoulders of the bearer, pushing, pushing, drowning.

Marinette could do with a distraction, but she definitely doesn’t blame them for falling short. Mostly, she just feels guilty for instigating it. Apathy is cold and worry is grating, and together they can drain a soul dry.

She is almost glad to see them go after the day ends. Almost, because her parents aren’t much better and she would rather not face them alone, but one look at Alya’s face withers the words in her throat.

Alya still hugs her before she goes. She has to babysit her siblings for her mom today, or she’d be with Marinette. Alya makes sure to stress this fact.

Marinette hugs her back just as tightly, trying to crush the usual liveliness back into her friend, ignoring the twinge of her arm. Alya is far more important than some stupid wound.

“I’ll be fine, Alya,” she says, her words muffled in her friend’s collar. “Seriously, you don’t need to mother hen me!”

The joke falls flat but Alya chuckles anyway, her face buried into Marinette’s hair, her hands pressing into the bones of her shoulder. “Please, I’ll always have to mother hen you.” She pulls away and surreptitiously wipes at her eyes, her smile a tad more real than before. “You silly little klutz of mine.”

“Hey!” Marinette protests, but finds herself smiling too. “Like you’re any better, you nosy reporter!”

“Well, that’s why I have you, isn’t it?” Alya points out. Marinette elbows her, a little roughly, the way she did when the two were children and boundaries were for people who didn’t know how to have fun. This startles a laugh from Alya, and this time when she wipes her eyes, it’s from laughter.

“Love you, Mari,” Alya says, pecking her cheek. “Let’s hang out tomorrow, yeah? My treat.”

“Okay,” Marinette says agreeably, and waves her off. “Love you too, Alya. You nosy busybody.”

“Better that then a klutz!”

All in all, Marinette thinks, watching Alya go, this conversation is perhaps the one good thing about her day so far.

-

Dinner is another story entirely.

Marinette pushes at her noodles. Her mother has gone with spaghetti tonight—a simple, easy dish. Usually one of Marinette’s favorites, with rich sauce and buttery bread, tonight she can barely force it down, too wired from the day’s events and from what she will soon do.

The atmosphere doesn’t help matter much—the silence is oppressive, out of place. Dinners in her home are loud, lively, filled with laughter and gossip and warmth. Tonight feels like a weak, pale imitation. Conversation falls flat if started at all. The food is good but lackluster. Her parents are blank-faced and quiet and the air is slowly but surely weighing down on her.

“Are you going to eat, Mari?”

Marinette startles, dropping her fork with a clatter. The ting of metal is obtrusively loud in the oppressive air. Her father flinches.

“Oh,” Marinette says, scrambling for her fork. She doesn’t meet their eyes, just looks back down at her barely-touched plate and swirls the utensil absently through the food. She feels ill. “I’m just not very hungry, is all…”

“You should eat,” her father says, gruff and awkward. “Nutrition is important.”

Marinette ducks her head into a nod. She can almost feel the metaphorical hand around her throat, the heavy air made solid. “Mhm.”

She shoves a forkful of food in her mouth. It’s too rich, too spicy, too much. Too many flavors but still somehow tasteless. She chews on it for too long and swallows it down with difficulty. Her father looks down at his plate. For such a large man, he looks so very fragile.

Marinette’s hands start to shake, her still-bandaged fingers trembling. It makes her wounds throb, sends brief spasms of pain travelling through her arm. She shoves another forkful of spaghetti into her mouth to hide it and then presses her lips together tight to hide their trembling, too.

“I—I have homework,” she says stiffly, her throat tight. She wonders distantly how she’s still breathing, if some invisible force really is choking her. “I’m—I’ll get some food later, when I’m hungry or something, I just—lots of homework.”

“Of course, dear,” her mother says, and her voice is soft and shaking. She doesn’t look up from her plate. Her knuckles are white from where they clench tight around her fork.

Marinette shoves away from the table, fork clattering from her numb and shaking fingers, her breaths too rapid to be natural. “Thanks,” she says, tongue slow and words thick. “I’ll—I’ll be upstairs. If you—need me.”

She doesn’t run from them, though she dearly wants too. It hurts to turn away from them, hurts to show them her back and she takes stiff steps to the staircase.

“Marinette,” her father says, and she turns so quickly her neck burns from whiplash. He looks at her like he doesn’t recognize her, and there is something desperate and fearful and unbelievably terrified in his dark eyes.

He meets her eyes for half a second and then they flicker away, to her arm. To her new injury. To her old scar.

“Ask us if you need help,” he says. His voice trembles. “With—with your homework.”

Marinette swallows hard and nods hastily. Her eyes are burning and she tangles her fingers together to keep from shaking too noticeably. “Okay, Dad.” A beat. “I love you.”

His eyes are so sad. Her mother still won’t look at her. Marinette has never thought of her family as breakable, but it seems to be the only way to describe them. Breakable. Things that are fragile and easily broken, be it by a thrown stone or daughter’s unspoken secrets.

“I love you too, Mari,” her father says, and Marinette dashes up the stairs before they can see the effect on her. Her footsteps are too loud, the stairs too old and creaking. Every thump of her bare feet against the wood feels like a hammer on the nail of her coffin.

The silence follows at her heels. Heavy. Solid. Unbearable. She doesn’t think she will ever escape it.

-

Marinette almost leaves then. It is two hours earlier than she planned, but it is already night and she wants— _needs_ —to escape. To get away.

She almost convinces herself the risk is worth it when Tikki finds her. The kwami flies free from her usual perch on the bookshelf, having been sleeping off the day’s events, and hovers quietly before her face. Tikki doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to. Her expression says it all.

Her eyes are so old. Marinette forgets, sometimes, just how ancient Tikki is. Seeing her now—it’s almost impossible to think of her as _young_.

“Marinette,” Tikki says, soft and quiet, “I’m so sorry.”

Marinette opens her mouth to reassure her. She makes to stretch her mouth into a smile, prepares to tell her that it’s okay and there is no need to apologize, really, Marinette’s just _fine—_

No words come. Marinette stands there, mouth half-open and hands shaking, and starts to cry. The first tear is slow and warm against her freezing cheek, and then the dam bursts and the rest stream down. She crumples to her knees, ignoring the sting, curling against the wall for support. The wood pokes her back and she buries her face into her arms.

She sobs messily, clumsily, without any grace or beauty. She wants to scream but she doesn’t want her parents to know so she stifles it in her throat and makes soft, gasping breaths instead, shaking so hard every wound throbs in tune. Her eyes are burning and every tear is uncomfortably hot against her swollen lids. She feels feverish, but she can’t stop shivering, every brush of air like a cold hand running down her spine.

Tikki rests on her head. She doesn’t try to talk to Marinette, not really—just makes soft soothing noises, half-murmured comforts and quiet words in unfamiliar languages: “It’s okay. Je suis ici. Méiguānxì. Es esmu šeit.”

Marinette just cries harder. She thinks it must have building up for a long while, and now that she’s started she just cannot stop. It is messy and ugly and painful, but she needs it. She needs this. She needs to cry because if she doesn’t she will scream with the pain of it all.

Eventually, her tears run out. She sniffs hard, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Her face feels swollen and puffy. Her cheeks are fever-hot. She feels thin and worn, gray and washed out, but she also feels... lighter. Stronger. Less likely to fall apart.

“I’ve made a mess of everything,” Marinette says finally. She sniffs again. “I’ve made a mess of everything and I don’t... I don’t know what to _do,_ Tikki.” She wipes at her eyes before she can cry again, suddenly ashamed of her tears.

Tikki is quiet for a long while. Then she says, “That’s okay, Marinette.”

“No,” Marinette says, forcefully. “It’s not! I—I thought I could do this, this—" she waves her hand through the air, “ _hero_ thing and keep everyone safe in the process and I ended up—Chat got hurt! He was blinded for almost a whole day! He’s _still_ hurt! And Alya and Nino are so, so worried because of me and my stupid ideas and my parents—”

She stops, breath hitching. “My parents—”

“Will be okay,” says Tikki evenly. “Believe me, Marinette.”

“But I—”

“Marinette.”

Marinette quiets. Tikki sighs, but there is nothing mocking in her tone. Simply something tired, something old, something like self-loathing.

“It was going to happen one day. Every choice has a consequence, and we all have to deal with them eventually. That doesn’t mean they last forever! Your parents will be okay, Marinette. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow—but one day.”

Marinette curls in on herself. “I just—I feel so _useless_.”

“I know,” Tikki says, gently. “But you’re not, Marinette! You never were. You just... got a bad draw, is all.”

Marinette doesn’t reply to this, just rests her chin on her folded arms and stares out into nothing.

“Tikki?”

“Yes?”

“What was the consequence of choosing me to wield the Miraculous?”

Tikki doesn’t answer for a long time. When she does, her voice is so soft Marinette has to strain to hear her.

“The pain it put you through.”

Marinette stares out her window. The sky is dark but for a few last fading rays of light. She stares at them, those fading colors, those dying rays of orange and red and gold painting the clouds, until all she sees is black.

“Okay,” she says. She takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

Marinette stands up. She makes sure to keep her breaths deep and even as she moves about her room, setting up her excuse. Homework scattered across the desk. Pillows set to hide the fact no one is in it. She finds a water bottle on her desk and drains it dry because nutrition is important.

She checks her phone and finds one message from Alya:

_\- Tell me if you need me and I’ll be there in a heartbeat, okay? Chin up, girl! We can take anything this silly world decides to chuck at us. We’re awesome y’know?-_

Marinette sniffles a little, but doesn’t reply. She memorizes the message and puts her phone in her desk, and then checks her face in the mirror. Her eyes are still a bit swollen but her cheeks are no longer red, and that’s good enough for her.

“Let’s go, Tikki,” she says, and her voice doesn’t tremble at all. “Spots on!”

Tikki beams at her before dissolving into light, shining a bright cherry-red in the relative darkness of Marinette’s room. Her earrings heat up, not enough to burn but enough for Marinette to notice it, and she can’t help her own smile as she transforms. Her hands press up against her face and the mask spreads beneath her fingers, so she stretches them out and lets the suit cover her, erase the trace of tears and self-doubt, erase Marinette Dupain-Cheng and let Paris’ hero take her place.

The light fades and Ladybug rolls back her shoulders, already feeling better. The title of Ladybug is a security blanket, a comforting mask similar to that of an actor of a play. Ladybug and Marinette are not all that different, not really, not at the core—but Ladybug is duty and luck and heroism, confidence and strength.

Ladybug is Marinette’s ideal in some ways, and her nightmare in others. She came to terms with it a long time ago.

She glances at herself in the mirror again, marvels at the blue of her eyes and the blood-red ribbons once again pulling her hair from her neck. She looks so much stronger with her traces of baby fat hidden by the mask, without the pink cardigan to annunciate the hunch of her shoulders.

No wonder no one has figured it out yet.

Ladybug flips the end of one pigtail over her shoulder and heads over to the balcony door. She pulls out her yoyo to see if she can perhaps track down the location of Adrien’s room—no need to awaken the whole house, she’s only going for a quick check—and doesn’t hear the trapdoor opening until it is already too late.

Ladybug whirls on her heel, heart in her throat and eyes wide, and her mother stares back, mouth half-open and face paler than she has ever seen it.

“Mom,” Marinette whispers, horrified, and something in her mother’s eyes _breaks_.

“Ladybug,” she says, “Marinette. My baby girl.”

“Mom.” She swallows hard. “Mom, I—”

Marinette stops, her teeth clacking as she shuts her mouth closed on the words with a snap. What? She can _explain_?

There is nothing to explain. The evidence is undeniable.

Her mother doesn’t speak, but her motions are soft and careful as she enters the rooms fully, allowing the trapdoor to fall shut behind her. Her eyes never leave Marinette’s face, and her expression is so carefully blank it breaks Marinette’s heart.

“Marinette,” her mother whispers again, and then just as softly, “Ladybug.”

Marinette ducks her head and doesn’t answer. She has nothing to say. This is never what she intended, and she is so off-guard it’s not even remotely funny.

Her mother leans gently against the wall, gingerly, as if made of glass. She takes a deep, heaving breath, her shoulders moving with the inhale, relaxing as she releases it. Her eyes flicker quickly over her: the patterned mask and form-fitting suit, the weapon in her hand, and the daughter she is struggling to see beneath it all.

“I can’t stop you, can I?”

She sounds so soft, so quietly miserable, it makes Marinette flinch. She takes a calming breath of her own and squares her shoulders. “No,” she agrees, “you can’t.”

Her mother closes her eyes as if in pain, but doesn’t look surprised. “I figured as much,” she admits, half to herself. She takes another breath, and this time she holds it. Her shoulders are shaking, the motion so slight Marinette almost misses it, but she is scrutinizing her mother as much as her mother is Marinette.

Her mother lifts her head. Her cheeks are dry, but her eyes gleam. “How long?”

Her parents have never been all that interested in heroes. They are practical people. They make bread, run their bakery, and eat dinner with their daughter. If a girl wishes to swing around Paris defeating monsters in a red-patterned suit, well, they don’t mind. But they won’t pay much attention, either.

Marinette looks away. “About two years?” she offers hesitantly.

Her mother’s breath shudders out of her. She places a small hand over her mouth, glancing away; Marinette pretends not to see the tear rolling down her cheek or hear the half-strangled noise she makes.

“Two years,” her mother says, once she has regained her composure. “I see.”

The silence grows between them, heavy and accusing and it’s too much, Marinette isn’t ready for this, has never been ready but even less so _now_. So she steps back, steps away from her grieving mother, toward the balcony.

“I,” she says haltingly, her words coming out in short, strangled bursts, “I, I have to—to go, I need to—”

“Fight?” her mother interrupts sharply, worry lacing her tone for a brief, motherly rage-induced moment. “With those injuries?”

 _I’ve had worse,_ Marinette almost says, but bites it back just in time. Instead, she shakes her head. “No—not yet. My partner, Chat…Chat Noir, I need to check on him.”

Understanding flickers like a light in her mother’s eyes, but her voice is still controlled and apathetic when she answers.

“Ah. I see.”

Marinette nods again, and backs up until the door handle digs into her shoulder. She turns slowly, unwilling to leave but too terrified to stay, and pushes the balcony door open quietly. The rush of cold air against her face is a relief.

“Mom,” she says, her eyes fixed on the dark, cloudy sky above her and the bright yellow lights strung throughout the city, casting pale reflections on the river, “I love you. You know that, right? I—I know this is, this is weird and dangerous and that—that it isn’t what you expected but I—”

Marinette hesitates, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. “I wanted to tell you, Mom. Both you and Dad. I wanted to.”

Her mother steps closer, hesitant. Her footsteps thud gently against the wooden floor.

“Why didn’t you?”

Marinette shrugs, tracking the small boats drifting below her balcony, swaying gently in the hold of the river. “I was afraid, I guess. Being a hero, it’s not… not easy. And, I thought, if you knew… it would make things harder. For you. For dad.”

She dares to glance behind her, where her mother stands almost at her shoulder. “For me,” she admits quietly.

Her mother reaches out, her hand gently cupping Marinette’s cheek. She always does this when she’s worried, Marinette knows. Sabine Cheng has never been withdrawn in her affection, but this a special sort. It’s the touch reserved for frightening accidents and after tearful fights. It’s an apology and reassurance all in one.

“I love you too,” she says finally, and her thumb ghosts over Marinette’s cheek, hitting the soft fabric of her mask. She rests it there, tweaking Marinette’s ear affectionately before finally stepping away. “You’ll come back to me, won’t you? You’ll come back to us.”

Marinette meets her eyes and thinks about Tikki, the Egyptian Ladybug and the many others that must have come after her. She has never dared ask what happened to the one before Marinette.

“Always,” Marinette says forcefully. It’s a promise she intends to keep.

Her mother smiles at that, and she relaxes slightly, a weight lifted by those words. “All right,” she says, and steps back again. “Marinette—we’ll talk about this. Later.”

“I know,” says Marinette. She doesn’t expect anything less.

Her mother nods again and steps further back into the room, and Marinette takes it a signal to start moving. She turns back to the open air with some difficulty, walking out to the balcony and hooking her foot on the banister, yoyo ready to fly, when her mother’s voice stops her short.

“Marinette,” she says. “No matter what—you’ll always be my darling baby girl. No matter what.”

Marinette turns to look at her, barely managing to nod to show she heard. Her eyes burn, and her chest is tight, but the emotion is not the cold grip of guilt but warmer, kinder, a deeper and more cleansing pain.

Marinette waves goodbye to her mother, to the first person to ever discover her secret, and steps back into the open air.

-

As it turns out, her yoyo _can_ track Adrien’s location. Ladybug tries not to wonder if it is because he might be Chat Noir, but it’s a useless endeavor.

From the mess of lines and small blinking light that shows his location— _Green, just like Chat’s,_ she thinks, and then _, Damn it_ —his room is on the east wing of the house, second story, in view of the city but out of sight from the front of the house. Ladybug will have to be careful not to trip any alarms on her way to it, but she’s thankful it isn’t too unreachable.

“All right, girl,” she whispers to herself in a bad attempt at Alya’s lilting tenor. “You’ve got this. Quick check, just to see if he’s okay. No dawdling, no talking. In and out. Simple.”

She nods to herself, clenching her fist the way Alya does when making plans, and is suddenly very glad she’s alone up here. That was mildly embarrassing.

All in all, it’s almost laughably easy to sneak past the gate. Ladybug releases her yoyo at the trees in courtyard, swinging herself over the high walls with little trouble. She can see a lock on the gate and sensors on the wall itself, but avoiding those, there isn’t much else.

Ladybug checks her yoyo again, confirms the location, then lands lightly on the sloping roof. She nearly slips on the shingles, but firms her grip on the windowsill to keep her balance. She takes a moment to catch her breath and prepare herself, then peers inside through the large window.

It’s too dark to see through it, but one of the middle windows has been cracked open to let in air, so Marinette pushes it inward and open, slipping inside like a silent shadow.

The room is dark, but she’s had the whole journey here to adjust, so she sees well enough. Her eyes flicker around the room, the tall ceiling and cluttered desk, the posters on the walls and the items placed carefully around the room. Had there been any other reason for her visit, she would have lingered on the sight. She would have stared at these walls and tried to find meaning in every item.

But because there is a reason for this invasion of privavcy, Ladybug finds her eyes drawn almost immediately to the bed. Adrien is asleep, unmoving and quiet under the sheets. His face is slack, the moonlight catching on the small scar on his chin and the still-healing burn on his cheek.

He has shifted in sleep, that much is certain—one edge of the sheet has fallen, to reveal a chest swathed in bandages. He is placed on his side—carefully, deliberately, and Ladybug looks at the covered wound that starts at his shoulder and curves down to his back, and knows why.

 _You should be in a hospital,_ her mother had said as she’d cleaned it. _You’re lucky that it’s not deep enough for stitches._

And in that moment, staring down at Adrien’s battered body, Adrien with Chat’s wounds and Chat’s face, she knows. Her best friend and her crush have been the same person all along, and the boy she was pushing away was the boy she’d always wanted, and in the end she hadn’t truly known either of them.

It’s not as big of a shock as it could have been. She had suspected ever since this morning, and in some way this is more a confirmation of a theory than anything else. She isn’t shocked, or surprised. Just… empty. Tired. Maybe a little bitter, or a little relieved.

Ladybug is so caught up in this realization that she doesn’t notice the room other’s occupant until they start to stir, and even then she doesn’t react. She just watches, quiet and ready to flee, shoulders drawn back. She moves almost automatically to cover Adrien— _Chat_ —and the other stiffens, rising from their chair and stepping into the dim moonlight.

Ladybug meets Gabriel’s Agreste dark gaze, and very carefully does not cringe.

Anger flickers in his eyes, so dark and narrow in comparison to his son’s. “Who—” he sees her suit, her straight back and familiar mask, and his lip curls. “Ladybug. Paris’ _hero_.” Scorn coats his words and she stares calmly back, trying desperately to read what little emotion she can find on his expressionless face.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses at her, but Ladybug has met so many like him that she barely reacts to the thinly veiled accusation. “This is _my_ home. You have no right to be here.”

Ladybug bites her lip hard to keep from snarling at him. Maybe Marinette has no right to see Adrien—they are only classmates and just barely friends, but Chat Noir and Ladybug are partners. They’ve seen each other bleed and patched up what wounds they could, fought monsters back to back and escaped near death again and again.

Ladybug has every right to be here, but if what Nino said was true—and she knows Nino, and exaggeration isn’t in his nature—then this man is the one who has no right to be here, acting like he cares.

“I have a better question,” Ladybug snaps, her eyes flickering way to linger on Adrien’s prone form, the excess of white cloth holding him together. “What are _you_ doing here?”

He draws himself up, offended by both her words and the callous way she’s said them. She draws her eyes away from Adrien and stares back, unrelenting and undaunted by his anger. A dark look passes over his face; his hands have curled into loose fists.

“He is my son,” Gabriel says.

“He’s my friend,” Ladybug replies. “But you didn’t know that, did you? I doubt you know who any of his friends are.”

His shoulders stiffen and his face is a mask of calm, but she can see the truth in the way he holds himself, defensive and angry. It startles a bark of bitter laughter from her, a sound so rough and raw it tears at her throat.

“Thought so,” she spits, because she is young and angry, at herself for getting Chat hurt and for never realizing the truth, and at Gabriel for never caring enough. He is an acceptable target for her bitter emotions, and she wants to see him _bleed,_ for him to realize just what he almost lost all those days ago.

Gabriel’s eyes flicker to Adrien, then fix on her with startling intensity. His face is cool and blank. She wonders absently how many times Adrien has been faced with this mask, unable to read him or see any emotion at all.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, and though his voice is even, the threat is clear. “Why are you here, girl?”

“He got hurt helping me,” she says back, just as calm. “I wanted to see if he was all right.”

His eyes narrow and Ladybug draws herself up, shoulders jutting back and feet planted firmly on the plush carpet. She has always admired this man, has always dreamed of working for him—but just because he does beautiful designs doesn’t make him any less of a father.

“Adrien talks about you,” she says calmly, before he can respond. “And from what I’ve heard? _You_ are more of an intruder than _I_ am.”

A lie, but one built off truths. Her mind whirling through every instance she’d encountered Gabriel Agreste, every word Adrien has ever spoken and even a few hint Chat himself had dropped. The one spinning around her head now makes her blood boil and her anger run cool and sharp.

 _Parents protect their kids, love them, keep them safe!_ she had screamed once and Chat’s murmured comment has stayed buried in her mind ever since.

_Not all parents._

Her words have the desired effect—Gabriel’s mask breaks, shattered by this unexpected attack. His breath hitches, and his jaw goes slightly slack. This time when his eyes go to Adrien, they stay there.

“What do you know about Adrien?” Ladybug asks, because her partner doesn’t deserve this. Adrien is kind and sweet, Chat ridiculous and protective, and he doesn’t deserve a father like Gabriel.

“His favorite color is blue,” Ladybug spits, because she doesn’t deserve Adrien either. “He gets cold easily. He loves the piano and he comes up with most ridiculous puns. He likes sweets, pastries most of all. He’s great at video games and he is always, always ready with a smile for everyone. Did you know that, Gabriel Agreste?”

The man stares down at his son and says nothing. Ladybug breaths in deep, and feels a bit like breaking herself.

“Do you know him at all?” she asks, biting and cold, asking herself the same question.

 _Do_ I _know him at all?_

“No,” Gabriel whispers. It is a murmured confession not meant for her ears, but heard regardless in the deafening silence that follows her accusation. His voice is toneless, empty, as blank as his eyes.

He shakes himself then, and when he looks back at her his anger has cooled. His eyes are dark with hatred, hatred for the girl who has ripped his faults to the limelight, who has exposed him for all his failings.

“Who are you?” he asks, because Ladybug should not know these things, should not know his son the way she does, and she smiles at that because sometimes she doesn’t know herself.

“Your son is a hero,” she tells him, because it’s true even though Gabriel will never realize the full extent of what she means. “And he speaks so much louder without your shadow looming over him.”

Gabriel’s face shudders closed. “Leave,” he spits, and when she doesn’t move his anger breaks through and he shouts it. “ _Leave_!”

Ladybug moves back, her job done and her heart heavy, but a soft catch of breath grabs her attention.

On the bed, Adrien stirs, roused from his drug-induced sleep by his father’s voice. His eyes flicker open, still clouded with sleep, and Ladybug steps towards him because he is Chat, her partner and her friend and her crush, and he deserves so much better than her.

But she is all he has, so Ladybug will have to do.

Confusion flickers in his eyes when he sees her, as she kneels briefly beside his bed. The fear is slower to come, but she sees it anyway—because for all that Chat had wanted to know Ladybug, he has never been comfortable with sharing his own identity.

“Get out of my house,” Gabriel snarls, “and _get away from my son_ ,” but Ladybug ignores him and leans forward to press a quick kiss against Adrien’s forehead. His skin is hot and feverish.

She thinks back on this day, her rushed decisions and her many mistakes. She regrets them. But every choice has its consequences and we all must deal with them eventually, and regret does her nothing.

So Ladybug does the next best thing—she apologizes.

“I’m sorry, Chat,” she breathes softly into his ear, too quiet for Gabriel to hear but just loud enough for Adrien to catch the words. When she pulls away his face is ashen, clouded eyes widening in shock, and he is struggling to rise up from his bed.

Marinette gives him one last look, memorizing his features and trying not to flinch at the growing horror in his eyes—and then she turns away from them, the heroic child and the terrible father, and slips back out the window as quick as she came, out into the open air and fading away into the shadows of the night.

She hears Adrien call out to her, weakly, desperately. She doesn’t look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it too late to add the "identity reveal" tag, or...?
> 
> On another note--Marinette is a 15 year old fighting super villains in her spare time. She's going to fight tooth and nail, but that doesn't mean other things can't break her. I hope I captured that idea in this chapter, or at least the essence of it. 
> 
> Any thoughts?


	6. Marinette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marinette faces her parents, catches up on recent events, and goes to face the Lantern one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has read/reviewed/ or left kudos--thank you for your support! The response to last chapter is honestly the only thing that got me through this one... which, let me just say. did NOT want to be written. Ugh. I'm still not very pleased with it, but I think you've been waiting too long for this chapter already.
> 
> Oh, also-- I'm aware that new episodes (particularly the origins eps) contradict a few key details of the story, such as the akuma, how Marinette met Alya, etc. For this story, I'm just going to ignore them. They're too important to the plot to cut out or change, sadly.
> 
> With that said-- tadaaaaaa

**[Three Years Ago]**

Marinette sits cross-legged atop her covers, hands resting in her lap. She studies her hands, notes the sharp curve of her palms and the smooth, manicured edge of her nails. They’re scattered with light scars, physical memories of her clumsiness and poor stitching skills, but overall her skin is smooth and soft. Free of calluses. Free from harm.

They don’t look like a hero's hands, Marinette thinks, and drags her eyes up to meet the strange flying creature fluttering before her.

“Kwami?” she says doubtfully, and her smooth, soft fingers link together. “Is that what you are? What does it mean?”

The creature—Tikki, apparently—just smiles. “It’s complicated,” she admits. “The important thing is what it means for _you_. You’ve been chosen to be my wielder, of the ladybug Miraculous.” She stops, and two bright spots on the creature’s cherry-red skin glows bright pink. Marinette stares, fascinated by this alien display of embarrassment. “I know it’s a lot to take in…”

“Um,” Marinette says, and blushes herself. “Well, uh, not that I’m not honored—but, um… I’m not sure if you have the right person? For hero-ing, I mean. I’m—I’m a fashion designer! I’m not really…” she hesitates, and looks down at her hands again. Smooth skin. Managed nails. Hands that have never seen true work before in her lifetime.

“I’m not really hero material,” Marinette offers, but all Tikki does is giggle.

“Maybe not by your standards,” she agrees. “But you’re kind. You’re selfless, when it comes down to it. You follow your dreams and make them reality. You help people without a second thought.” The kwami smiles at her, teeth unnaturally white and eyes glittering with sincerity. Marinette is struck into silence, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed, awed by this flattering portrayal.

“You sound a lot like a hero to me,” Tikki finishes gently, and slowly, tentatively, Marinette smiles back.

“Okay,” she says, and curls her fingers around the earrings. The metal backing digs into the soft flesh of her palm. It is the first scar of many to come. “I guess I’ll give this hero thing a go.”

-

**[Present]**

Marinette doesn’t really remember what happens after she leaves the Agreste’s mansion.

Maybe it’s because nothing happens at all. There are no robberies, no akuma, no Lantern to distract her. Just Ladybug and her burning eyes and the cold December wind biting her cheeks, her burned fingers sore from handling her yoyo and her breath caught in her throat.

She doesn’t know when she gets back home, or how long she’s been gone. All she knows is that she is tired, and hurting, and all she wants to do is sleep.

She pries open her bedroom window with frozen fingers, and stumbles inside like she hasn’t done since she was twelve years old, clumsy and unsure and just learning how to be a hero. She catches herself on the balcony door and manages to keep her feet, the night air swirling in after her like a vengeful spirit.

Her mother looks up at the noise, and belatedly Ladybug realizes she’s been waiting for her to return. For a moment she is terrified that her mother will try and confront her, that Chat’s heart isn’t going to be the only broken one tonight, but all her mother does is reach out a hand and say, “Marinette?”

Ladybug swallows, and lets the transformation fall. She doesn’t see Tikki duck out of sight before her mother can notice—she doesn’t see much of anything, because the burning in her eyes has finally transitioned to tears.

She feels her mother’s arms wrap around her, a soft hand against her hair guiding Marinette’s tearful face into a welcoming shoulder. She clutches her mother back tightly, choking back a sob, and manages to stifle any leftover traitorous tears. She feels as if she has spent the past few days doing nothing _but_ cry, and she hates that.  Marinette’s the one falling apart, even as she breaks everyone else.

She pulls away after a long moment, blinking through tear-dropped lashes at her mother. “Sorry,” she whispers thickly, sniffling hard and wiping at her nose. “’M sorry.”

Her mother—her wonderful, understanding mother—just takes one look at Marinette’s face and guides her towards her bed without a word.

Marinette lets her. Maybe she’s too old to be babied or tucked to sleep, but for now Marinette just wants to be the child she’s supposed to be. So she lets her mother lead her to the bed and coax her into pink-striped pajamas, lets her smooth back Marinette’s hair and pull the warm covers up to her chin.

“Mom,” she says, as her mother calmly tucks in the sheets and arranges the pillows like her hands aren’t shaking. “I…”

Her mother shushes her, gentle and kind, and the hand she smooths over Marinette’s hair is soft and soothing. She smiles like nothing is wrong and her daughter isn’t a hero, but her eyes are as fragile as glass.

“Not now,” she chides, eyes shadowed but clearly relieved. “Later. Much later. We have the all the time you need. Sleep, now.” She pauses, and something regretful and sad enters her gaze, twists her soft smile. “You look… very tired.”

Regret is an ugly look on her mother, Marinette thinks, but simply closes her eyes and leans into her mother’s hand. “I am,” she admits quietly. “It’s been… a long day.”

Her mother huffs a laugh and kisses her forehead. “I imagine so,” she murmurs, and Marinette pretends not to hear the way her voice hitches, just barely, over the words.

“Sleep, darling,” says Sabine Cheng, and Marinette views her through half-lidded eyes, sees her stiff lip and strong shoulders and well-hidden grief, and remembers very suddenly that once upon a time she’d viewed her mother as the strongest person in the world, and had wanted to be just like her. When had she forgotten that? When had she viewed her mother as weak, as something to be protected?

“Don’t go,” Marinette pleads, because she is tired and sore and she’s as good as lost one of the most important people in her life, and she doesn’t want to lose another.

Her mother smiles and rests her hand on Marinette’s head, fingers brushing through her hair. Soft, soothing, calm. She always did this when Marinette was younger—sit by her side and stroke her hair until she fell asleep, until the simple rhythmic movement chased away whatever nightmare lingered in her head.

“Of course,” her mother says, and with that reassurance ringing through her ears, Marinette finally dares to close her eyes.

-

She sleeps fitfully, waking at odd hours, feeling either overheated and feverish or unbearably cold. Her dreams are a haze of color and familiar voices, ringing through her head like white noise.

At some point Marinette finally slips off into a restful doze, and when she next opens her eyes it’s to glaring sunlight. She takes a moment to reorient herself, rubbing the gunk from her eyes and sweeping stiff, sweat-soaked hair form her forehead. Her body aches with the low, dull throb of numerous bruises, her nosed blocked and a tentative burn settling in the back of her throat.

“I think I overdid it,” Marinette says to the room at large, her voice a thin croak.

Tikki flickers into view, her form cherry red in the morning light. “I think so too,” she agrees, quietly fond and just a touch exasperated. “How do you feel?”

Marinette considers this. “Crappy.” She remembers Adrien’s face, and the familiar weight returns. “Guilty.”

Tikki doesn’t look surprised, and gives Marinette a regretful look. For the first time, she offers no advice. Some dramas, Marinette supposes, are beyond even the knowledge of a 2000-year-old kwami.

Marinette clears her throat and distantly regrets it when the threatening burn erupts into a full-blown sear. “Is my mom…?”

Tikki takes the subject change gratefully, though the worry doesn’t leave her wide-eyed gaze. “Downstairs,” she offers. “You missed school; it’s almost eleven by now.” She pauses again, and sighs. “Marinette…”

Marinette eyes her warily. “Yes…?”

Tikki bites her lip. “Your… your dad knows. I heard them talking about it this morning. They’re… they’re waiting downstairs.”

Marinette stares. “Oh,” she says, and slowly leans back against the pillow. She gazes up at her white, shadowed ceiling, as if the purity of the color can burn away her sudden swell of tears. It’s hard to breathe, and it’s not entirely because of her sore throat. “ _Oh_.”

On one hand, this isn’t very surprising. Marinette’s parents are not secretive people. They are trusting, confiding, and most problems are tackled together with joint effort. On the other…Marinette hasn’t considered it. She had never wanted to tell her parents, but if she had been forced too, her mother alone would have been her first choice. Marinette’s father is kind, caring, and supportive—but stress and fear have always hurt so easily. Out of the two, her father is the most breakable.

She presses her injured arm against her face and keeps it there, breathing shallowly. She feels like kicking something, or screaming, neither of which is a good idea, so she settles with this. An arm across her face and deep, slow breaths. Almost mediation, except it is indefinitely more difficult to focus.

She slides the arm off her face and blinks blearily at the light again. She remembers her mother’s worn, breaking smile from last night, and decides maybe her father knowing isn’t so bad after all. They’ll have each other for comfort after they learn the true extent of Marinette’s troubles.

Carefully, she slides off the bed, shrugging on a bathrobe to keep warm and shuffling her feet into slippers. She ties it on with careful trembling fingers, and waves Tikki away when she tries to help. The throbbing of her arm has faded to dull ache, and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much now. She’ll be able to fight again soon.

It’s a depressing thought, especially with the looming conversation she has resigned herself to, so Marinette pushes it out if her mind and makes her way downstairs.

Both of her parents look in when she enters; she gives them a careful, fragile smile. They return it, and even if her father’s hands are trembling and her mother looks a moment away from collapse, it is a start.

“Mom,” she says, and then, “Dad. I—“

“I made waffles,” her father blurts suddenly, fumbling with his words and speaking over her. She blinks at him, surprised, and he smiles again. This time his hands do not shake. “I made waffles,” he repeats, voice steady. “Let’s eat. Talking… can come after.”

Marinette stares at him, and slowly dips her head into a nod. Her smile curls at the edges, and something tight eases in her chest. “Okay,” she agrees, voice small. “Let’s eat, dad.”

The waffle is still warm when he places it before her, dripping with golden syrup and garnished with fresh sliced fruits. Marinette eats slowly, savoring the sugary flavor and the crunchy edges, her fear and tension easing with every bite, with every beat of companionable silence.

Her father hands her the juice, her mother steals the fruit off her husband’s plate. The usual chatter isn’t there, but the silence isn’t nearly as oppressive as it was the night before. It’s as if the truth about Marinette, while placing a new weight on her parents’ shoulders, has eased the old wounds away.

Despite Marinette’s attempts to prolong it, the meal comes to a close too soon. Before she knows it her hands are empty and the plates cleaned off in the sink. The sun is high up, now—it’s nearly lunch—so Marinette sits the chair directly in view of the window, in case she needs to stare at something other than her parents.

“So,” Marinette says finally, her parents’ patiently quiet beside her. “Ladybug.”

Her father nods, suddenly hesitant. “You never told us.”

“I wanted to.”

“Your mother said.”

“Oh,” Marinette says, and sure enough, brings her eyes up to stare right at the sunlight as if it can burn her tears away. “Still. I… I wanted to, I just…”

She trails off, grasping for the right words. Her mother reaches over, small hand covering hers, and rubs a soothing circle on Marinette’s calloused palm.

“You just?” she prompts, voice soft. “Please, Marinette. This isn’t… it’s not an interrogation. We… Your father and I, we just want to know the truth.”

“I know!” Marinette says, because she _does_ know, more than they can guess. “It’s… it’s hard, is all. Being Ladybug… it’s fun! Really! I’ve met so many interesting people, and done so many amazing things…” she trails off, wistful. Those first months as Ladybug had been the best of her life, and after that it had all been downhill. “It’s just, it’s dangerous too. I didn’t… I was afraid if you knew…”

“You thought we would get hurt,” her father murmurs to himself, quietly astonished. It’s rhetorical, but Marinette responds anyway, relived the words have been said for her.

“Yeah,” she admits. “That.”

Another silence falls over the family, her parents considering; Marinette wary and afraid and trying not to show it. Finally her mother sighs, and pulls Marinette into a tight sideways hug.

“I still don’t like this,” she admits to her daughter, words muffled into Marinette’s silky hair. “I don’t think I ever will. But if it’s what you’ve chosen to do… then I won’t stop you.”

Marinette breathes in deep, blinking rapidly against the tears pooling in her eyes. “Okay,” she says, soft and thread-bare. She clears her throat and tries again, but her voice still wavers. “Okay.”

A large hand, heavy and comforting, comes to rest on her head, pulling them into her father’s warm embrace. “I’ll admit,” he says, and squeezes them tight. “It terrifies me, the idea of you being Ladybug. But… It’s too late to stop you, I think. So I’ll support you as best an old baker can.”

Marinette sniffs hard, and finally buries her face into her mother’s shoulder, the fabric growing damp. “I’m sorry,” she says, and her voice cracks on the words, as delicate and as fragile as glass. “I’m sorry I kept it a secret. I’m sorry I never told you. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry, Mom. Dad. I’m so sorry.”

They hold her tight and rock her between them, and maybe they cry too, but Marinette keeps her face buried in her mother’s shoulder and does not see it. She feels her father stroke her hair and hears her mother’s soothing words, and every condolence just makes her cry harder. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt. A healing hurt. Her secret has been found out, the heaviest weight taken from her shoulders by her parents’ dependable hands, and she hasn’t felt this light in _years_.

“My beautiful daughter,” her father murmurs, “my brave little girl. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

“We love you, Mari,” her mother whispers fiercely. “We love you. Let us help.”

Her father’s hand strokes through her hair. Her mother rubs soothing circles into her back because she cannot reach Marinette’s cheek. Their voices are thick with tears and fierce with sincerity.

“Okay,” Marinette chokes out, chest hitching and hands curling and so very relieved. “Okay.”

-

It takes a while for things to calm down after that, their emotions rubbed raw and their routines disrupted. Marinette is not used to having people know, and her parents have just found out their daughter fights super powered crime in her spare time. It is a morning of awkward motions and stilted silences. No one knows how to act.

It is Marinette who suggests TV; after her parents make it clear they don’t intend to let her run out to school. Part of it is a way to calm down—morning TV is a daily ritual, a way to find out what’s going on in the world. On the other…

It’s been three days since Marinette’s battle with Lantern. She’s doesn’t have much time left, not that she had much at all. Three days of quietly attacking, of gathering her strength…if Marinette doesn’t face the Lantern soon, soon she won’t be able to face her at all.

Notably, she doesn’t inform her parents about this. Some things take time, and this is most definitely one of them.

With a bored sigh, Marinette flips through another channel. Her parents have already retired to the rooms above, and she is left alone with the repetitive droning of the broadcasters. So far, she hasn’t heard much of anything. There’s all the usual stuff—weather, traffic reports, little stories on other’s daily lives… but nothing on the Lantern. If anything, it just sets Marinette on edge.

She flips to the usual news channel, where most of Ladybug’s—and by extension, the akumas’—stories prominently figure. The lady on the screen is dressed in neat, finely pressed clothes, hair curled and set in place with gel. Marinette sets the remote beside her and settles down with a sigh. If she just keeps flipping through she’ll probably miss any reports, if one shows up at all.

She listens with half an ear as the lady murmurs on, something about global warming or an issue on the political side of things. Mostly, she just focuses on the lady’s clothes. Neat stitches, neutral blue fabric. It’s pretty, how the dark blue contrasts with the pale cream of her shirt. The style of the cut is something she’s seen before… what brand is it? She’s certain—

Oh. It’s an Agreste style.

Interest muted, Marinette sinks down further on the couch. Go figure. She tries to relax, and the world magically decides to remind her of her mistakes. Haha. Hilarious.

A sharp buzz fills up her apartment, drowning out the soft words of the announcer with ease. Marinette cranes her neck at the sound of her doorbell, feeling ready to cheer despite her confusion. Any distraction is a welcome one, right about now.

“Who is it?” she calls out, and can’t quite hide her shock when the door opens to reveal a beaming Alya and Nino standing awkwardly behind her.

“Guys?” Marinette asks, peaking over the couch, incredulity wrapping around her words. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have school?”

“Don’t you?” Alya returns, practically bouncing through the door. “Besides, it’s lunch. We have an hour.”

Marinette blinks at her, bemused by her good cheer but grateful to see her. “Well, Mom and Dad thought it would be too stressful… Ah!” She jolts, and slaps a hand to her head. “I forgot to text you! Sorry, Alya.”

“See?” Nino pipes up, giving Alya an amused glance. “Told you that was why.” He turns to Marinette and waves hesitantly, other hand looping around his neck in a nervous gesture. Something in his shoulders has eased since she saw him last, a brightness having returned to his face. “Hey, Marinette. How’s it going?”

“It’s going all right,” Marinette says truthfully. It’s not perfect not by a long shot, but she's finally started fixing her mistakes rather than making them, and that more than anything has made her feel more at ease than she has all week. “You?”

He gives a crooked smile in response, hands shoving back into his pockets. “Better, honestly.” He tilts his head. “Thanks to you, at least. I mean, I’m assuming, but…”

Alya huffs a laugh, flinging herself down on Marinette couch with a grateful sigh. “Hah! Probably, right?” She turns to Marinette, a smirk playing across her face, eyes alight. “Should’ve known that look was for something. I just can’t believe you didn’t include me in on it! For shame, Mari.”

Marinette blinks at them both, baffled beyond words. “Huh? Wait, what?”

Alya just laughs, slinging a careful arm around Marinette’s shoulders. “So?” she asks gleefully, eyes glittering behind her wire frames. “What’d you do? Call their house and rant the old man out? Knock at their doors until they listened? Blackmail?” She leans closer. “If it was blackmail and you didn’t involve me, I’m going to very sad, Mari.”

“Blackmail?” Marinette repeats, incredulous. “Wait, I don’t— _what_?”

“Adrien!” Alya says. “I mean, it was you, right? I’m assuming it was you.”

“I don’t…”

“Adrien called me today,” Nino reveals, rolling his eyes at Alya’s deliberate vagueness. “Apologized for being late, et cetera. Said he fell down some stairs, apparently…?” He shrugs. “Either way, he contacted us. Said his father was just being protective, which was why he didn’t text earlier, but… well, considering how closed off they were before, it was weird.”

“We figured you did something,” Alya jumps in. “I mean, you had that _look_ , you know? The one that says, ‘I’ve got a plan!’ So I figured it was you.”

“Oh,” Marinette says, mind whirling. “Um, well, I don’t think I really did anything important…?”

The last part comes out a bit like a question, a bit like a squeak. Nino raises an eyebrow. Alya gives her a suitably unimpressed look, with an expression that screams her disbelief.

“I called them… and called again?” Marinette tries weakly, grasping desperately for a response that will, hopefully, not contradict whatever answer Adrien will give when they finally track him down. “So… they probably got annoyed?”

There is a beat of silence, in which Nino bites back a laugh at the image these words produce, and Alya mulls over the excuse, eyes narrow and sharp behind her frames. Marinette fidgets, then immediately tries to appear as if she did not.

Then Alya laughs, sharp and clearly amused, and her toned arm comes around Marinette’s shoulders to squeeze in a tight one-armed hug.

“That’s my girl!” Alya crows, and her eyes are laughing in tune with her voice. “Wore them down with that charming personality of yours, did you?”

“The magic number is five tries,” Marinette offers, grinning herself, and even that comment has Nino snickering aloud.

“Well it clearly worked,” Alya says, and ruffles one hand through Marinette’s hair. “So congratulations of the success of your plan! We thought,” and here Alya jerks a rough hand between her and Nino, “we should let you know the good news, especially after you didn’t show up at school.”

“It’s good to know,” Marinette admits, smiling gratefully. “And sorry about that, by the way. I, uh…” she laughs nervously, one hand coming up to twist the end of her hair. “I may have pulled my injuries…?”

Alya looks disproving, so Marinette hastens to explain. “An accident! It was an accident! The bus trip had nothing to do with it.”

“Hmm,” Alya says, still not convinced, but to Marinette’s relief Nino comes to her rescue.

“C’mon, Alya. If she says it wasn’t the bus, then it wasn’t the bus.”

“Hmph,” is Alya’s only response, but her shoulders relax and Marinette bites back a smile. She knows she’s off the hook.

Nino throws himself on the couch beside Alya, the cushions sagging under their combined weight. He nods at the TV screen with a smile quirking his lips. The darkness from yesterday has left him, and Marinette is cheered to see Nino is back to usual self at last.

“Anything going on out in the big wide world?” he asks, a smile quirking his lips. Marinette smiles back and shakes her head, leaning against her own cushion with a heavy sigh.

“Not that I’ve seen,” she admits, and shakes her head. “It’s so boring! All about politics and stuff.”

“C'mon, Mari,” Alya says. “Politics are important.”

“Yes,” Marinette agrees. “But I’ve seen Chloe’s dad say the same speech so many times I think it’s ingrained in my mind.”

Nino buries his head into his arm and laughs, while Alya just shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” she says fondly. Her eyes draw back to the screen. “Oh, wow. Look like there’s some news after all.”

Marinette turns to the screen as well and feels her heart sink. The volume is too low for her to hear the words, but behind the reporter numerous images flicker across the screen—blurry gray images of crowds fleeing down the streets, a girl in a long pale dress blasting light from her gloved fingertips. The camera pauses, the picture zooming in on the Lantern’s face, casting her cruel, wicked smile in full view.

Alya grabs the remote and turns up the volume, and even Nino leans forward in interest.

“—he police have tried and failed to apprehend this new villain, with numerous casualties. They have warned civilians away from wandering alone and after curfew, as the Lantern is still at large since her appearance three days ago.”

Nino grimaces. “She’s still active? Damn.”

Marinette ignores the comment and the guilty half-glance he gives her, raptly fixated on the screen. The image has changed to a map to highlight just what areas the attacks have been most frequent, and Marinette tracks the intersecting lines with her eyes, trying to see where they all connect.

Then the screen focuses on an image of one of the victims, and Marinette flinches away. Chat’s sightless eyes are burned into her memory, and the frozen picture of the man on the screen with his empty irises and drawn expression brings every one of those bad memories to the surface.

Alya leans against her shoulder, taking her hand and squeezing it tight. “It’s horrible,” she mutters angrily. “Those poor people. Why haven’t Chat Noir and Ladybug taken care of this one yet?”

“Maybe they’re out of commission too?” Nino offers. “This… Lantern seems really strong.”

“Still,” Alya insists, and her nails dig slightly into Marinette’s skin as her fist clenches in righteous anger. “It’s horrible, what that girl’s done. And it’s probably going to get even worse. All those people…”

“Yeah,” Marinette echoes hollowly, watching the images flicker over the screen of her TV. Unseen by the two beside her, her free hand slowly clenches into a fist. “Horrible.”

-

Marinette tilts back her head, letting her eyes flutter closed as winter wind brushes by her face. Her coat and scarf keep her warm, but at this darkening hour no amount of cloth can keep out the brisk cold winds.

Her parents hadn’t wanted her to go.

Marinette had expected that, of course—it was why she’d waited so long to tell them. She hadn’t wanted to give them time to talk her out of it. They’d tried in the hour she’d given them. Her mother had pleaded for one more day. Her father had tried to argue for letting the police handle it. But in the end they’d acquitted, and watched her go with worried eyes.

Which is ridiculous, if she thinks about it. She’s not planning on facing the Lantern now—tomorrow, maybe, and only because if she waits much longer they’ll all be in trouble. She probably can wait another day after that, all things considered. But then, it’s like what happened with Chat all over again. She’d told herself she could wait to get away from Chat before turning to Ladybug, and the result had been blindness and the reveal of her greatest secrets.

Marinette could wait. But she thinks waiting will do more harm than good. Better to face the Lantern soon, before she gains too much strength. Better to face her before the akuma decides to take out her rage on the city as a whole, not just the unlucky few who have stumbled across her.

However, that doesn’t mean she’s going to face her without a plan.

Marinette adjusts her coat’s collar, shivering slightly, stepping lightly from the path of a hurried shopper. The eastern half of the Île de la Cité, crammed full of locals and tourists alike, is cast in long reaching shadows, spindly fingers cutting into her path in jagged angles. The dusk air is crisp and cold, burningly cool with every inhale, and every exhale has her breath misting into the air. Even with the sun about to set, it’s as crowded as ever, the cafes full to bursting and the line for Notre Dame reaching all the way into the streets.

Tikki bumps against her cheek, hidden from view by the long curtain of Marinette’s unbound hair, her voice soft. “Are we getting close?”

Marinette leans heavily against one wall, absently rubbing her injured arm. “Soon… it’s a bit past here, on one of the emptier streets—at least, that’s what I figure.”

She can’t see her small friend, but she can hear the smile in Tikki’s words, warm and proud. “I’m certain you’re right! You did a really good job of tracking her down, Marinette.”

Marinette smiles back, pride a warm glow in her chest. “It wasn’t hard,” she whispers back, unable to keep the silly smile off her face. “I just looked for where there were the most accidents…” She shrugs a shoulder. “Besides, I’m best friends with Alya, you know? She’s a good teacher.”

Tikki’s silence is broken only by the soft sound of her giggling, and Marinette bites her lip to keep from laughing aloud herself as she checks her phone again. Only a few more blocks to go, and then she’ll be able to scout where the Lantern might be hiding. She can’t get too close, not if she wants to avoid a fight, but if Marinette wants to win their next battle, she needs to be prepared. Injuries don’t go away nearly as quick as she’d prefer, and that’s not even counting the fact she won’t have Chat there to back her up.

“Two more to go,” she murmurs, and stuffs her phone—and chilled fingers—back into her pocket. Pushing off the wall, she heads back into the crowd, watching her feet as she maneuvers her way through the street. The streetlamps will light soon, and even with all her layers and the people surrounding her, the oncoming darkness sends new waves of cold to rattle her bones.

Perhaps it is this reason—that chill, unstoppable wind swirling relentlessly around her—that allows her to notice so quickly. Because the wind is cold and biting, and the winter snow is coming very soon, and the sudden burst of heat at her back is so startling she can’t help but notice it.

And when a burst alight slams into the street, sending people sprawling and starting the screaming anew, she can’t deny the logical conclusion.

 _No,_ Marinette thinks, _no, please, not today. Not now. Not here._

But the Lantern does not care for Marinette’s wishes, and her laughter rings loud and clear above the sudden screaming of the crowd.

“I’m done waiting!” she howls, as Marinette whips around to stare up at her, hidden in the faceless mash of the crowd. “If you won’t come to me, Ladybug… then I’ll make you come out!” She pulls back a hand wreathed in light, her yellow dress all but swamped in what must be hundreds of beads. “Your time is _up_!”

Marinette doesn’t allow herself to hesitate. She ducks the oncoming wave of light and scrambles to the nearby café, bursting through the doors and running straight for the bathrooms. She won’t allow this to be a repeat of last time. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how many wounds this gains her—she _refuses_ to let even come close to that.

She accidently knocks into another woman on her way in, and the slippery tile nearly sends her crashing on the floor. Throwing an apology over her shoulder, Marinette ducks into a stall and latches the door with shaking fingers.

“Tikki,” she whispers, harsh and furious. “There’s a camera on that side, can you smash it? We can’t let them see who comes out.”

“On it,” Tikki whispers back, and for a breathless moment Marinette is alone but for the terrified, sobbing people in the stall beside her and the _drip_ - _drip_ of the sink taps.

Tikki flits back to her side, her large eyes wide and worried. For a moment, Marinette thinks she’s going to say something—but the kwami just presses her lips together tight and says, very deliberately, “Be careful, Marinette.”

Marinette doesn’t grace her with an answer. Of course she’s going to be careful. She has a promise to keep, after all.

“Spots on!” she says, and the glow of her transformation wipes every worry away.

She’s Ladybug, after all. She can’t afford to lose.

-

The streets are empty when she reaches them. Even the blinded, with their pupils gone and their sight along with it, have been led into hiding. The courtyard of Notre Dame is unnaturally empty. The usual crowded cafes are abandoned and over-turned.

Even the Lantern is missing from view, but the lingering heat in the air tells Ladybug otherwise. She’s still here. Just no longer in sight.

“Are you here, Lantern?” she calls, fingering the solid weight of her yoyo on her side. “I hear you’ve been looking for me!”

A moment of silence, and then—

“Ladybug,” a soft voice coos, danger lacing every word. There’s victory there, and enough rage to burn the whole world. “Finally crawled out of whatever hole you were hiding in?”

“Who says I was hiding?” Ladybug challenges, slow to turn towards her enemy. She has gotten much better at mind games, the longer she’s run around in this suit, and has to bite back a smile when the action coaxes a sneer from the Lantern.

If there is anything Ladybug has learned to expect from akumatized, it’s that they hate being treated like they’re not a threat.

“What would you call three days of silence, if not hiding?” the Lantern snarls back, pale light building in her gloved palms. Her dress is mended, clear fabric without a single tear. The beads are back, too, and the sight of them makes Ladybug grit her teeth. So many people without their sight….

“Or perhaps,” the Lantern continues, “you heard what happened to your dear partner… and decided to save your own skin.”

The confident smile drops form Ladybug’s face. It takes effort not to snarl.

“I’d prefer the term ‘strategic retreat’ myself,” Ladybug admits, casually looping the wire of her yoyo around her finger. She sweeps her eyes around the area in a light, searching gaze, noting every oddity. The pale streetlights. The empty buildings. The broken pole, jutting out of one corner, the other end firmly rooted in the ground.

“But I guess,” and here Ladybug pauses, bringing up every bad joke Chat has subjected her too throughout the years, “you just can’t _see_ it that way, huh?”

The Lantern freezes, and Ladybug strikes before the woman has the presence of mind to attack, snapping out her yoyo in one fluid movement. The wire wraps around the pole, and she tugs hard to make sure it won’t snap on her…. And then she’s off, whistling through the air faster than the Lantern can shoot, a blinding burst of light hitting empty streets as Ladybug plants her feet against the wall of a building.

“Over here!” she calls, and shifts her feet before pushing off with all her strength, her yoyo wrapping around the streetlight next. Again the burst of light hits nothing but wall, again Ladybug has darted out of the line of fire.

“Too slow!”

This time the Lantern does snarl, the low light of evening casting her pretty face—what Ladybug can see of it, with that masquerade mask—in dark shadows. The woman brings back both arms near her ear, then sweeps out her hands in one fluid movement, a whip of light blasting from her fingertips in a continuous, blinding wave.

 _That’s new,_ Marinette thinks stupidly. Instinct makes her lash out—her wire wraps tight around another streetlamp, and the momentum of her throw spins her away from the blast just in the nick of time.

She lands heavily, rolling on rough ground, the cobble jolting every bone in her body. Her arms throb with warning; her bandaged hands have started to ache again. Ladybug pulls herself up with grit teeth and tries to ignore the part of her wishing desperately Chat was here with her.

The Lantern cocks one fist and lets blinding light fly free, the glow betraying her intentions before she can execute them. Ladybug sets her feet and lunges into a tight roll, ignoring the wave of heat brushing at her back. She lets her yoyo fly before she even fully stops rolling, this time striking at the Lantern directly. The wire wraps around the woman’s arm, the yoyo knocking into her forehead, throwing her next blast off-balance.

The light crashes into a vacated shoe store, glass glowing white-hot, the covering catching fire. Ladybug winces at the damage, then yelps when the Lantern takes advantage of her moment of distraction. With one hand twisted up in Ladybug’s wire, and the other coated with swirling light, it’s pretty clear that the last thing Ladybug wants to be is in range.

She doesn’t fight the vicious pull—just moves with the momentum presented; dashing forward faster than the Lantern can gather wire and flipping right over her head before she can shoot. The wire follows her motion, and the advantage turns to the Lantern’s disadvantage—the wire-covered hand is yanked up and back behind her, throwing the woman off her feet and forcing her to release it.

Ladybug spares a second to rewind, the twisted wire righting itself midair as the yoyo smacks into her palm with a steady thump. And maybe it’s a mistake, but she allows herself a moment to breathe, to give her injured limbs a rest.

“Not very bright, are you?” Ladybug calls out, breathless and exhausted. A breathless smile pulls at her lips, wild and fierce. The fight is going to be hard-fought, but she can see a path to victory unfurling right before her eyes.

The Lantern climbs to her feet with sharp, jerky movements, her breathing heavy and labored. She stares out at Ladybug through the fringes of her hair, and for a single moment, the sharp glowing outline of a butterfly rings her eyes.

Ladybug’s smile falls away instantly.

There is no time to prepare, or for any regret—just the Lantern’s angry, howling cry and her desperate lunge for Ladybug’s throat, the eyes behind the mask burning like embers. Ladybug sucks in a sharp breath and stumbles back, her mind blanking out momentarily, instinctively waiting for Chat to step in and give her time to plan, as he always does—

—and Chat isn’t _there_.

There isn’t even time for a few well-deserved curses, and definitely not to plan. Ladybug throws herself to the side in a reckless roll, just barely missing being skewered by the Lantern’s burning fingers. This time when she throws herself into the flip, adrenaline pulls her past the instinctive pain of her still-healing hands, and her back cracks loud and fast when she drops to the earth, an arc of light sailing over her by a hair.

There is a moment’s pause when the Lantern draws back her fist for another simple blast, and Ladybug doesn’t hesitate this time. She snaps out her arm with a bone-deep fury at her own mistake, the motion sharp and calculated as the yoyo secures around the first support she can find. And then—as the blast lands at her feet, and her arm _screams_ from her careless handling—then, Ladybug is flying, and even the Lantern’s raging curses are drowned out by the wind in her ears.

Only half aware, her body moves on its own—back angled, feet first and flat, body braced for impact. She hits the streetlight support at full speed, the sudden stop jolting every bone and sending every injured nerve aflame. Ladybug grits her teeth and ignores the taste of blood—she must have bit her cheek without realizing.

“Stupid,” she snarls, and then snaps out her arm again, aiming for the barred windows just behind her foe. She needs to get to the roofs, she needs to get away—three days building power has made the Lantern too powerful for Ladybug to handle alone, and if she wants to win this with herself intact she needs time to _plan_.

_And I don’t have Chat here to improvise._

She misses the windows, her injured arm flinching away from the exaggerated throw and casting her shot low. She’s lucky enough to catch one of the café covering supports, a little close to the ground and the Lantern than she’d have liked, but there’s no time to check for stability and no time to hesitate.

She tucks her body in tight, already mapping out her path. Swing past her support, past the store front entirely—she can still reach her original destination. Use the nearby streetlight to swing herself on the low slanting shade roof. From there, the actual top of the building. Even if the Lantern has somehow figured out to fly, she’ll still have a few moments to turn this battle in her favor—

—and then, she can feel her support give.

Not strong enough to support her weight, the metal backing rips away from the wall with a loud screech of rusted nails, sending both pole and Ladybug crashing into the ground. Her momentum hurdles her to the earth, her clumsy attempts to catch herself only throwing her in a twisted, painful tangle of limbs on the ground. Her head snaps against the cobble and her vision swims, colors and shadows blending together in an incomprehensible mess.

Through the tangles of colors and swirling sound, there is light. Burning, blinding, and then doubled, casting into twisted sight a figure warped in Ladybug’s eyes, advancing ever closer.

Ladybug stares back at her, dazed and half-blinded, struggling to regain her bearings, and only manages one clear thought from the tangled web of her mind: _Oh._

The Lantern raises her hand.

_I failed._

A crash. A hurried swear. And long stream of silver darting from the shadows to slam into the Lantern’s hip, casting her aside.

The pole retreats back to its castor, Ladybug following with disbelieving eyes, and she can’t quite stop the instinctual cry of relief that makes it past her lips when she sees him.

Chat Noir, his side bulging from bandages and one hand wrapped tightly around his staff, leaning gingerly against the side of the building and yet still smiling that same smile—Chat Noir just smirks, and lets out a soft laugh as the Lantern struggles to regain her footing.

“Light’s out!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an explanation for Marinette’s parents, since I couldn’t find a way to include it in the actual chapter: I honestly see them as the type to support Marinette in her choices, so long as she’s thought them through. Ladybug’s been around three years in this story; she’s clearly aware of her actions. Besides, they know their daughter—they ground her, she’ll probably sneak out and do it anyway, just as she’s been doing for years already. They don’t want to lose any more than they already have. So, they’ll support her best they can, no matter how much her being Ladybug terrifies them. ...At least, that’s my view on them, haha.
> 
> Also, Chat's back! Man, is that going to be an awkward conversation...
> 
> Any thoughts?


	7. Miraculous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has read this story, and perhaps left a comment or kudos--THANK YOU. SO MUCH. I could never have finished this without you guys. Not even kidding about that, I suck at finishing things. SO SERIOUSLY THANK YOU. You guys are awesome!!
> 
> I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations.

**[December 19 th]**

For a moment, Ladybug’s world stands still.

Nothing about tonight is going as she planned. From the Lantern appearing without warning, to the dark turn the battle took only moments ago, to _this—_ any and all plans have slipped like sand between her fingers, and for all that Ladybug is lucky, some miracles just aren’t meant to be.

So yes—despite the battle, despite her fear, despite the pain blurring her vision—Ladybug pauses. She stares at him; at this boy she’s called partner for three years, and “husband-to-be” for just as long. For a moment Chat is all she can see, from his messy blond hair glowing gold in the sunset to the vibrant green of his eyes and the soft quirk of his lips, grin marred by pain but still teasing and carefree regardless. He is as he always is, but she has the startling feeling that she’s seeing him for the first time.

“ _Chat_ ,” she breathes, stunned beyond comprehension. His smile falters, and the light of humor in his eyes dims as his head tilts to look at her. Uncertainty flickers across his face and the sight of it sends a stab of pain through her heart, pain that has nothing to do with her many cuts and bruises.

“…Chat,” she tries again, fumbling over the words in a way that is so alien to her when wearing Ladybug’s mask. Before she can stumble her way through another sentence a sudden movement catches her eye. She jolts her from her trance, scrambling to her feet and ignoring the sharp stab of her side.

“Chat, _duck_!”

To his credit, her partner doesn’t even hesitate. Chat drops like a stone to the street below, the wave of light washing over his head and fading into sparks out in empty air. Before he even hits the ground Ladybug has whirled into action, curling her wrist in one fluid motion to pull her yoyo securely back into her palm.

A brief lull settles over them, hushed and tense, Ladybug ready to defend and Chat struggling to regain his senses from his sudden drop. The Lantern is wheezing faintly, hunched over her belly with one hand outstretched, caught between the two heroes. Sweat glistens on her face, and behind the mask her eyes are cold and wild, teeth grit against the pain.

“Oh, good,” she hisses, and her bared teeth shift into what might be called a smile. “So the little kitty’s come to play too. Saves me the trouble of hunting you down.”

Chat smiles at the Lantern from his place on the ground, one hand propped on his hip and legs crossed like lying on the street was what he had in mind all along. “Aw, I’m flattered, really. Not often that the villains wait for me to show up. I guess I really am the … _light_ of the party, huh?” He winks. “Sorry I’m late.”

The Lantern snarls low and guttural in her throat, eyes flashing as she brings up her arm and lashes out at him, a blistering arc of light sparking from her gloved fingertips. Ladybug strikes the second she sees the woman move, her yoyo wrapping around a thin wrist and yanking the shot off-course. Quick as a whip, Ladybug pulls her yoyo back to her and lets it fly free once more, the wire spinning around a solid construct before the previous blast can even dissipate. She swings herself to land by Chat and loops one arm roughly around his middle, just below his wound, pulling him flush beside her. Chat yelps and flails against her side.

“Aaah, ahh—”

“Stop moving!” Ladybug hisses at him, twirling the wire around her hand once. She hurls it at a nearby vantage point and yanks the line to check the weight, not eager for a repeat of earlier. She places a foot against the wall, preparing to drag them both along the side. Her head is spinning from her previous fall, but the wall is flat and firm beneath her feet and the only way to go is up.

Light flickers in the corner of her vision, a low curse meet her ears. Ladybug plants her legs beneath her and _pushes,_ heat nipping at her ankles.

Her chosen perch is a roof that is both low and flat, but high up enough to give the Lantern trouble with her aim. They separate once they hit, Chat rolling one way and Ladybug sprawling the other. Both are gasping for breath.

“Oh, ow, ow, owwww,” Chat groans, and his head slams back against the building with a muffled thump. “Ah, crap I think—I just reopened the goddamn wound, _shit_!”

“Shouldn’t have followed me here then, stupid kitty,” Ladybug gasps back, knees skinned beneath her suit and hands throbbing. She feels feverish and lightheaded, and for terrifying moment the whole world spins out of focus.

“Yeah,” Chat mumbles, “and let you get your head burst open? You’re very welcome for that, by the way, no need to thank me.”

“I very much appreciate staying one piece.”

“Hah hah, anytime.”

Ladybug smiles faintly, closing her eyes and trying to get her breathing under control. Chat sucks in a whistling breath beside her, face twisting into a grimace as he moves to the edge of the roof, legs curling under him to push up into a crouch.

“You have a plan yet?” Chat says absently, one hand cradling around his side as he chances a look over the edge of the building. A whizz of light blasts up at him and he throws himself back, the light singeing a few stray strands of hair. “Yahhh!”

“Working on it,” Ladybug mutters, grabbing one arm and pulling him back a little farther. The last thing she wants is for her partner to get even _crispier_.

“Lucky Charm?” Chat whispers back, crouching low by her side. Ladybug bites her lip, mind whirling as she thumbs her yoyo. She’s not overly fond of using her power until the last moment, when the five minute countdown serves as less of a hindrance and more a reminder. To call upon it so early leaves too much to chance for Ladybug’s taste, especially with how her luck has been as of late.

She looks up, towards the setting sun, caught behind the looming form of Notre-Dame Cathedral. The shadows are long and reaching, illuminating the many statues set upon the cathedral’s surface.

Slowly, Ladybug smiles.

“Not yet,” she says finally, climbing unsteadily to her feet and smearing blood away from her eyes. The world is still a little dizzying, but her stance is steady enough. “But soon.” She smiles down at him, her hard smirk softening into something more genuine, honest relief at having him here with her bleeding through the hard knot of anger in her chest. “Think you can drive her off to Notre-Dame?”

Chat drums his fingers on his staff, a sharp _rat-tat-tat_ that Ladybug thinks might be the starting beat of new Jagged Stone song. He’s looking out towards the cathedral, mapping the route across rooftops and lampposts, grimacing at the future pain in store. But his eyes are shining in a way Ladybug has become familiar with—bright and hard with teeth-grit determination and the thrill of a challenge.

“Think?” he says, and even though his laugh is strained, it is real. “My lady, I _know_.” He angles the staff on the concrete, using it to drive him up to his feet. He sways, unsteady, but he stands. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Just keep high up,” Ladybug advises. “Near the statues.”

He smiles, giving an absent-minded “Got it” in response. He glides to the edge of the roof again and glances down, laughing loudly at what he sees.

An arc of light whips at his face and he leans back, expecting it. His smile is cool and sharp, mischief made wicked. “Hello, firefly!” he shouts down, eyes glinting. “Nice shot there! Care to try again? I’m sure you’ll hit me eventually!”

A furious snarl and another blinding burst of light is his only response, and Chat laughs again, leaning back against his staff. Both ends extend, one slamming back firmly into the concrete roof and the other driving him forward, shooting staff and boy overhead to the building beyond. The Lantern gives another shout of rage and follows him.

Ladybug turns away, determined to trust Chat with his part of the mission. She weighs the yoyo in her palm and searches for her target in the short time he has given her, processing possible landings and paths each choice will take her. The easiest among them is found in the corner of her eye, a stroke of luck that isn’t by chance at all, and Ladybug sets her feet and readies her arm for the throw.

In a moment she is airborne, wind ripping through her hair as she sets her feet, pushing off one wall and heading to the next. She ignores the soft sound of Chat’s laughter and the frequent bursts of light in her vision. Panic will not help her _or_ Chat, and the best she can do is play her part.

She settles on Notre-Dame light as feather, catching herself before she stumbles. Her arm is a mass of pain, throbbing in tune with the beat of her heart, dizzying in its intensity. Three days is not nearly enough time to heal, and her exploits have forced the wounds open once more.

Ladybug mutters a few choice curses under her breath, one hand gripping her shoulder. She forces herself to her feet, snarling through clenched teeth. “Crap, crap—ohhh, ow…”

A thump of footsteps and ragged breathing similar to her own is all that warns her of Chat’s arrival, his staff clattering loudly from his hand, the boy himself leaning heavily against one of the corroded stone spires.

He smiles at her, the expression halfway to a grimace. “Told you I could do it,” he mumbles, sagging against the stone. “Ugh, I’m all burned out…”

“Told you to take it lightly,” Ladybug returns. It’s not her best joke, but Chat giggles anyway, a little helplessly. His eyes have fluttered closed and he tilts back his head, breathing deeply, jaw tight. Ladybug bites her lip.

Before she can speak he drags in another ragged breath and then he straightens, expression firming. “What now?”

Ladybug smiles back at him, a part of her railing against his involvement and continued suffering even as another part marvels at his inner strength. “Now, phase two!”

“There were phases?” Chat asks. “God, so many.”

“There’s only actually two.”

He grins, a little wry. “At last, my lady! A non-complicated plan! You have seen the light.”

Despite herself Ladybug laughs, startled by the sudden joke. Turning to the edge of the cathedral, she peers over to gage the distance between the Lantern and them, trying to see what aspects of her plan can still be applied.

It’s risky, of course. They’re both battered and out of breath, and their usual rhythm disrupted by the secrets, known and unknown, still hanging between them.

But then again, Ladybug knows, it’s always risky.

“Okay,” Ladybug says, and tries not to notice as Chat’s smile falters at the reminder of their current situation. “Here’s the plan.”

-

The Lantern stands in plain view, back straight and eyes gleaming beneath her mask, dress clinking softly with every movement, beads rattling in the cold wind. In a way, it almost makes sense. She is the lantern, she is the light. Why should she hide? She’s the star of the show.

Ladybug isn’t fool enough to join her, but she’s reckless enough to dart away from her perch, settling on one of the worn stone spines of the cathedral, smile nowhere in sight as she stares down at the Lantern.

The woman just smiles, polite and mocking, and Ladybug’s blood burns at the sight of it.

“Finally come to play, little bug? Little girl?” the Lantern coos. “I grow tired of this. For a small favor, you’ve turned into quite the menace.” Her expression sours briefly. “If you weren’t crucial to keeping my powers…”

A sigh.

“Not even much of a fight, are you? The poor kitty hasn’t yet recovered… and oh, look at you!” She smiles. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. Abandoned your dear friend to take the fall the first time I came around, but karma hasn’t escaped you either, hmm?”

Ladybug takes a calming breath, air rasping against her raw throat. When she speaks, her voice is short and clipped. “Are you done?”

The Lantern’s smile drops off her face, and Ladybug stiffens in preparation for an attack that doesn’t come. “Oh, no,” the woman says flatly. “I’m not. Not ever. Not until I get my light _back_.”

Her look gentles, and slowly she raises a hand, light building up in her palm. It casts ghastly shadows across her face, darkening the deep hollows of her mask. “But you? Oh yes. Dear Ladybug, the hero, the miracle, Paris’ _savoir…_ Yes. I am so very done with _you_.”

“Oh,” Ladybug says, deliberately calm. “That’s nice. Good to know we’re on the same page, then.” She pauses, reveling in the instinctual hesitation that follows this declaration. She isn’t taking revenge but no one ever said she couldn’t be petty, and she can’t quite keep out the vicious rage from her voice when she shouts, “NOW!”

The Lantern launches forward with a low snarl, arm drawing back for a throw, but in the end this only serves to seal her fate, crumbling stone raining over her head. She gasps, trying to throwing herself back, hands flying out in front of her. Ladybug whips out her yoyo, the wire wrapping securely around one wrist.

Light bursts and blooms, but against solid stone, worn by rain and time but sturdy in the face of all but Chat’s Cataclysm, the heat does nothing but break the stone into more pieces. The rock rains down on the suddenly defenseless villain, and the Lantern screams.

Ladybug yanks on the wire.

The crumbling head of one of Notre-Dame’s gargoyles shatters against pavement as Ladybug bodily pulls the woman up into the air, dragging her from danger at the last moment. She winds the wire tight around the Lantern’s body to keep her arms pinned, jumping down to yank the Lantern higher, the long wire whistling sharply against the statue she chose as an anchor. Ladybug’s feet hit the pavement and she stumbles, the Lantern screaming in rage above her.

“Chat!” Ladybug screams. “The necklace! It’s in the necklace!”

A moment later she hears a grunt of effort and a loud crack, and then Chat’s voice, rising in terror. “Ladybug! It’s not, it’s not—it’s not there!”

“What? What are you—?”

“The necklace, I broke it, but—the akuma, the akuma’s not in the necklace!”

Her blood goes cold, a chill crawling down her spine as the Lantern starts to laugh, low and hysterical, thrashing in the wire. “Can’t take _my_ light away!” she snarls. “Can’t find it, can you, you fucking brats!?”

Ladybug grits her teeth against the panic rising within her, wrapping another loop of wire around her fist and holding fast against the Lantern’s thrashing. The akuma had been freed earlier, and Ladybug has never had to face someone who caught it before the transformation faded. It is likely that the akuma changed objects in that time, and the idea makes her blood run cold.

“Too clever for you, little girl? Too clever for the dear lucky Ladybug?”

“Shut up!”

“Can’t pull off a miracle, can’t save the world,” The Lantern coos back, and too late Ladybug spies the light building in her hands, hidden behind her body—

_“Chat!”_

—and a wave of heat slams into her, blistering skin and making the wire of her yoyo glow red-hot. Chat yowls, pain lacing his voice, and the wire slips through Ladybug’s fingers, grip loosening in shock and fear.

The Lantern yelps, caught off guard by the abrupt drop. She never hits the ground, however, because there is another yell, this time one of triumph, and Ladybug blinks the spots from her vision to see Chat with one hand twisted in wire, hoisting the Lantern up despite the obvious pain it’s putting him through.

“Chat—Chat, are you—”

“Light!” Chat shouts, cutting her off hurriedly. “Light, _the light in your eyes_ , it’s in the mask! It has to be!”

Ladybug reacts on instinct, not allowing even a flicker of doubt as she lunges forward. The Lantern twists, shrieking and screaming and spitting, but Ladybug doesn’t even hesitate. Chat is right; he must be, and the flicker of fear in the blue eyes behind the masquerade mask only strengthens her resolve.

“No!” the Lantern cries, and for a moment purple light outlines her face, in the sharp angles of butterfly wings. “No, _no_!”

The woman’s feet draw up to her chest, and when she kicks out, she hits Ladybug right in the gut. The Lantern’s sharp heels dig into the soft flesh of her belly, and then a wave of blistering heat smacks Ladybug across the courtyard.

She skids across the ground, tumbling on the rough concrete. Ladybug curls up instinctively when she stops rolling, hands covering her stomach as she weakly gasps for breath. Under the suit, the only thing that stood between her and getting charbroiled alive, her skin feels raw and tender. The slightest brush of her fingers sends her new burns off into a frenzy of scorching pain, and Ladybug can’t keep back her pained cry.

Dimly the world comes back into focus, sounds and colors rushing back in a twisted, hazy blur. Far-off she can see Chat and the Lantern facing off, her partner struggling to keep the woman at bay. They are dim figures to her eyes, blurs of black and yellow, light flaming between them like fireworks.

Ladybug draws herself to her knees, still struggling to breathe. Every inhale pulls at the inflamed skin on her middle, and when she curls her fingers around her yoyo they are trembling, doubled to her eyes.

She tosses the yoyo weakly, but some luck sends it flying high into the sky. For a moment it hovers, caught between reality and magic, and Ladybug feels a soothing tingle wash over her, a pull at her navel that comes every time she uses this special power.

“Lucky… Charm!”

The item drops, and Ladybug fumbles when catching it, still on her knees. She turns it over in her stinging palms, trying in vain to focus on it. The surface is smooth and hard, ridged and long, and when she clicks the small button near one end it lights up like a beacon.

A flashlight.

Ladybug tucks the item under one arm, using the free hand to carefully climb to her feet. Her eyes flicker to and fro, noting her surroundings and every possibility available. Shadowed streets, shadowed cathedral. Chat, near the door. The Lantern, approaching him.

She can’t catch up to them right now, not as she is. Ladybug wraps her wire around the flashlight twice, decisively, yanking hard to secure it. She watches the flow of the battle with wary eyes and when the Lantern draws away, weakened from their earlier attack, Ladybug throws her yoyo at Chat with the last of her strength.

“Chat, catch!”

His head whips around and his hands come up automatically, grabbing the flashlight in one hand and her yoyo in the other. He blinks at the items, and her, and frowns.

Ladybug nods back, and grits her teeth.

Chat braces his feet against stone and _pulls_ , yanking Ladybug to him in a rapid flurry of movement and pain. She stumbles beside and his hand cups her elbow, steadying her. The whole process takes no more than a few seconds.

The sudden inclusion of one more hero clearly unsettles the Lantern, for she lunges at them, just as Ladybug predicted. Caught in the looming shadow of Notre-Dame’s cathedral, in the already fading sunset, Ladybug aims the flashlight square in the Lantern’s face and clicks the button.

The sudden brightness is sharp and blinding, more intense than any normal flashlight could be capable of. The Lantern yowls, stumbling away, and Ladybug pounces.

She rips the mask off the Lantern’s face, ducking sharply to avoid the last desperate blast the woman hurls at her, her nerves shrieking in pain. Ladybug stumbles away out of the line of fire and throws the mask against the ground, and when that doesn’t break it she lifts her foot and stomps down hard.

The mask cracks solidly down the middle and the Lantern screams, high and shrill, her body writhing like snake before she drops to her knees.

A small, flickering butterfly rises from the broken mask, wings soft and delicate and black as bottled ink. Ladybug yanks on the wire, her yoyo hitting her bandaged palm with muffled thump. The weight is a welcome one. This time, Ladybug is ready.

She drags her finger along the face of her yoyo, the cover peeling back to reveal a glowing pool of radiance. Winding back her arm, Ladybug tosses it carefully, magic and luck guiding her aim. She has something she’s supposed to say but not enough air in her lungs to say it, and so the two halves of her yoyo close in on the butterfly in silence, and the red glow is almost blinding in the increasing darkness of dusk.

The yoyo hits her hands and Ladybug turns it face up, smiling softly, relief making her hands shake and her smile quiver. “Gotcha,” she whispers, and her fingers clench around the weapon.

The yoyo slides open, and a new butterfly takes to the air—just as small and delicate as before, but its wings are white and see-through and flicker like they’re made of light.

“Bye-bye, pretty butterfly,” Ladybug whispers, and watches as it flutters off into the sky and out of sight.

She twirls the flashlight—still lit, and casting a bright glow across Notre-Dame’s courtyard—through her fingers once before tossing it into the air as well. This time she might even be smiling.

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

A swirl of red light consumes the sky, and Ladybug tilts back her head to watch it, marveling at the damage being wiped away. Hundreds of beads disintegrate into mist, the costume stripped away from the limp form of the woman on the ground, any wounds the Lantern might have had swept away. The light buzzes around Ladybug as well—soothing the throbbing hurt of her hands and brushing the new wounds away, her burns vanishing under the cool touch. It can’t do much for the old wounds, the ones already healing, but Ladybug knows that there will be no risk of infection now.

The red swarm of light, the loveliness of ladybugs, swirls once more around Ladybug and Chat, before vanishing into air, leaving them alone and out of danger at last.

-

There’s a moment of stilted awkwardness between them, when Chat cautiously clamors down from his perch on Notre-Dame, still holding his side and blinking spots from his vision but all new injuries soothed by Miraculous Ladybug. He smiles at her, and now that the adrenaline has faded she can see how shy he is around her, the reveal of his identity no doubt having made him skittish and uncertain of where they stand.

Ladybug takes a deep breath and tells herself it doesn’t hurt, even though her heart aches at the sight and she has to blink rapidly to dispel any rising tears. She gives him a quick once-over, determined to ignore any hesitance on his part, and manages a small wisp of smile back that probably looks as insincere as his own.

“You okay?”

He watches her carefully, but for what, Ladybug has no clue. “I feel more punching bag than human… but that’s nothing new. So.” He shifts, shrugging a shoulder. “Uh, you? My lady?”

Ladybug rubs her elbow, sucking her lip against her teeth to keep back the grimace. “Um… yeah, I’m okay.”

He ducks his head into a nod, and his bangs flip over his face. “Good! Good.”

Ladybug takes another breath and when he doesn’t say anything else, holds out her fist, the limb hanging awkwardly extending in the air between them. Chat looks up at the motion, staring at her and then her extended arm, and for a few heartbeats Ladybug is terrified that he won’t go through with it, that the secret she’s discovered has ruined them both for good.

Then he raises his own arm and bumps his closed fist gently against hers, smile still shaky but a tad more sincere, and Ladybug lets out a breathless sigh of relief.

“Mission accomplished?” he offers, and she smiles, gently nudging him back, knuckles knocking together.

“Mission accomplished.”

A guttural cough from behind them jolts the two away from each other. The former Lantern gapes back blankly, a pair of wire-framed glassed perched on her strong nose and blue eyes filled with confusion.

Ladybug looks at Chat. Chat looks at Ladybug. The woman stares at them and then at her surroundings, eyes wide and lips clamped shut.

Chat breaks first, sighing softly and crouching beside the woman. She startles, but he holds up his hands in peace. His smile is appeasing and kind.

“Hi,” he says, and gives quick wave. “You okay there?”

The woman blinks up at him and shivers, pulling her cardigan tight around her shoulders. “I… where am I? What happened? Where’s—where’s Timothy?” Her voice is rising in her panic, head whipping around as if she expects this Timothy to be right beside her.

Chat waves his hands in a bid for calm. “You’re in front of Notre-Dame, ma’am, and… Timothy is… he’s probably fine. Uh. Who is he?”

The woman’s gaze is blank. “I... Notre-Dame? Why would I….” She shakes her head, drawing in another fortifying breath. “Timothy’s my son.”

“Timothy,” Ladybug repeats, and feels the sense of dawning comprehension. “Your son. The… light of your life.”

Chat’s head snaps around. His mouth forms a small “o” in surprise, and then his lips clamp shut and he frowns, suddenly despondent.

The woman blinks, bemused. “Well, I… yes. Yes, how did you know? I tell him that all the time…”

“Ah, that’s…” Chat fishes for an answer, no doubt eager to avoid the whole awkward “you were a villain and tried to kill us” conversation the poor woman will receive eventually, but is saved by a shrill shriek of sirens in the distance. In the aftermath of the attack, the police are no doubt on their way, and when Ladybug hears the softer beep coming from Chat’s ring, well, that’s just another reason to flee.

“I’m sorry,” she tells the woman, grabbing Chat’s arm and pulling him away. There’s three prints left on his ring. “The police will explain everything; it’s doubtful you’ll be sued for anything and if so we’ll try and help… we really have to go, though, so take care!”

She smiles at the woman, and it’s easy. With her mousy brown hair and wide eyes, it’s hard to see her and the Lantern as the same person, hard to view this poor befuddled woman as the source of her misery.

Three days ago everything was simple and perfect, everything made sense, and maybe it’s better that her parents know her secret and that she knows Chat’s, maybe it’s better all her secrets have come to light, but in the end—does that matter? Because her former life has gone up in flames, and everything she’s known has been turned on its head, and it is all. Because. Of the Lantern.

But.

The Lantern may be at fault for these things, but this woman isn’t the Lantern. The Lantern was her hatred, and her desperation, but this woman is no more responsible for her actions than Alya as Lady Wi-Fi was.

For all of Ladybug’s grudge, she hopes things turn out okay. Akuma target bleeding hearts, after all, people who have been hurt so many times all they want to do is scream.

Ladybug—no, Marinette—could never fault them for that. She’s not in the business of being deliberately hypocritical.

“Good luck,” Ladybug tells the woman, and resolves to check up on her. If she’s going to clean up her messes, she’s going to do it right. To Chat, she says, “Let’s go.”

Chat looks at her quietly for a long, uncomfortable moment. Another light on his ring flickers and dies away with a shrill sound. His nod is slow to come and hesitant in a way that is utterly uncharacteristic of the boy she’s come to know and care for.

“Okay.”

Ladybug carefully wraps her arm around his waist, mindful of his wound. He is still and awkward where he once would have been loose and teasing, shying away from her touch. It makes her feel small and bit like she’s just kicked a puppy.

“Sorry,” Ladybug mumbles, even though she doesn’t know exactly what she’s apologizing for, and swings them up past Notre-Dame to the city beyond, away from the sirens and reporters. Her own timer is ringing in her ears now, and when Ladybug finally sets them both down, Chat’s ring is on its last light, blinking fast.

She sets them down gingerly and he rolls out of her grasp and onto his feet as graceful as a cat, shoulders stiff and head turned away. Ladybug sets her eyes on the horizon and doesn’t turn around even when green light plays on the glass windows across the street, lighting her up from behind like a beacon.

By now, the sun has long since disappeared below the horizon— all that remains of the sunset are fading streaks of orange and red painting the darkened sky. In the twilight Paris is holding true to its name as the City of Light, lit from every corner, either by the soft glow of streetlamps or the stark brightness of the Eiffel Tower.

Ladybug closes her eyes on the sight, breathing in deep and slow. The night air is freezing cold, the taste of winter heavy on her tongue. It wraps around her still figure, chilling her to the bone. Its touch clears away the fog in her thoughts.

Chat isn’t saying anything. Maybe it’s deliberate—maybe he’s letting her choose. Or maybe he’s afraid too, and is trying to stall as long as he is able.

Ladybug doesn’t regret what she is about to do. She won’t let herself. If there is any evidence of the toll the past few days have taken on her, it is this. Ladybug is so tired of lying. Of keeping secrets. Of smiling and reassuring but seeing their faces fall anyway.

Despite this resolve, Ladybug hesitates. She is afraid to turn around. She doesn’t want to see his face, to hear his questions. She has grown used to this life, to the surety of his friendship and laughter.

She is terrified that what she is about to do will ruin that.

Except Marinette is Ladybug, and more than anything else that means she will have to make sacrifices. Her honesty, her time, and one day, maybe even her life. It is something she had come to terms with a long time ago.

And there is very little in this world she wouldn’t sacrifice for him.

Choice made, she takes another breath and lets the night air wash her clean, lets it cool her clammy palms and slow her rapid heart. When she walks to his side it is as she always does, every step deliberate and confident, her head high and shoulders loose. The timer beeping in her ears is like the toll of a bell, final and damning.

He looks up at her, and for the first time she really, truly, looks back. She tries to match up these two boys who have been dear to her, trying to meld her image of them into one. Chat’s eyes in Adrien’s smooth unblemished face, Chat’s scars on his chin and the bare skin of his ankles and wrists. His hands are pale without the gloves on them, cupping what must be his kwami to his chest.

A small black head peeks through Adrien’s slender fingers. Green eyes slit like a cat’s glance between them, and the small kwami gives Ladybug an unreadable look before burrowing inside Adrien’s jacket.

A small wisp of a smile touches Adrien’s face at the action. Adrien’s smile. Chat’s eyes. Two people who have always been so different to her, actually one in the same.

“Chat Noir,” she says, and the use of his full title is almost a confession on its own, the soft way the syllables roll off her tongue carrying a sense of finality. His smile drops and his eyes snap over to her. “We need to talk.”

Adrien’s eyelids flicker, familiar green eyes glancing up and then away.

“Not really up for a _chat_ right now,” Adrien says, but his tone is too flat and voice too thin for the joke to take. He flinches, shoulders hunching, and his sigh is so soft she almost misses it. “Yeah,” he says finally, voice gone quiet and careful. “We do.”

The beeping in her ears is still soft, but gradually growing in intensity. Experience tells Ladybug she only has three minutes before she reverts back to being Marinette again. The thought is unnerving, because for all that her secret has been discovered, both times were out of her control—accidents, events that very little to do with conscious choice. To deliberately unmask herself before a boy who she loves and hurts for in equal measure is…

Ladybug isn’t sure what. It’s painful, that’s for sure. Uncomfortable. And so very hypocritical of her, she knows this. Guilt and Hypocrisy are becoming familiar companions after this past week.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, the words quick but sincere. She’s still dressed as Ladybug but for now she feels more like Marinette—tied down by daily woes and tripping over own tongue, her heart a tangle of emotions without an enemy to focus on. “I’m so sorry, Chat— _Adrien_. I’m so sorry.”

Adrien stares past her, to the darkened horizon. The lights of the city reflect in his iris. His gaze is almost dreamy, if not for the stiff set of his shoulders or the way his hands clutch at his pant legs. Adrien isn’t daydreaming; he is bracing himself, and for the life of her Ladybug can’t figure out why.

“What for?”

“Everything,” Ladybug says immediately, and winces. “For… not being a good partner, for not being a friend, for—for finding out your identity when I _knew_ —“ Her throat closes. The beep of her Miraculous is increasing rapidly. Three minutes to two, two to one. How long until zero?

“Everything,” she says finally, heart quickening with every beep in her ears. “ _Everything_. Y-you have no idea how sorry I am.”

Adrien gives her a little half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Are you going to leave?” he asks, very quiet. Politely ignoring the apology. “You’re on your last minute.”

 _I’m not leaving,_ Ladybug wants to say. It should be easy. It should be the easiest thing in the world. But Adrien’s smile isn’t reaching his eyes and his face is so cold and she can’t force those three simple words past the lump in her throat.

Adrien breathes in, eyes shining in the light. The tears pool but does not fall, blinked away rapidly. “C’mon Princess,” Adrien says, and despite the smile curling his lips his voice is shaky and thin. “Don’t you trust me?”

This is an easy answer. This is Adrien, after all. Adrien who handed her the umbrella in the pouring rain, Adrien with the smile like sunshine, soft and warm. This is Chat Noir, too. Chat with his quips and his laughter and his constant presence by her side, dependable and kind.

“Yes,” Ladybug says, “yes, _yes_. Always.”

And even though her heart is pounding and she thinks she might be sick with fear—she stays.

The red light of detransformation blinds her momentary; she’s forgotten to close her eyes. Marinette blinks the spots from her vision (and pretends with little success it’s not tears), her hands reflexively curling and uncurling into fists, sweaty fingers bare and unprotected in the chill winter air.

Tikki brushes against her palms, but like Adrien’s kwami, says nothing. Her eyes are huge and dark and sad in her small face, and she squeezes Marinette’s finger once before slipping out of view behind her.

Marinette takes a deep shuddering breath and sweeps a stand of hair behind her ear, forcing herself to meet Adrien’s gaze despite the ever-growing urge to flee. “H-hey, Adrien,” she whispers, and her voice cracks halfway through.

Adrien looks like he’s been struck, eyes wide and face blank, his mouth dropped open. It would be funny if it weren’t unbearably terrifying. He swallows hard and doesn’t stay anything.

“I’m sorry,” Marinette says again, and it’s a struggle not to cry. Her eyes are burning and she’s blinking so fast it’s hard to see. “I guess, you—didn’t expect this, huh?”

He sucks in a rapid breath, blinking like he surprised to see her. Marinette bites her lip so hard she nearly draws blood. “Sorry,” she rasps, and despite her efforts a few tears curve down her cheeks.

“I knew,” Adrien blurts, choked and hurried, panic on his face. “I—I mean, I. I figured it was you. Because you—you knew I was hurt, and. You came to visit, and then, then you _knew_ b-because you saw my wounds, I think, and—" He sucks in a deep breath, shaking his head. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face turned away.

 _Princess_ , he had called her, not just two minutes ago. _Don’t you trust me, Princess?_

Marinette sort of feels like breaking down herself. “You knew,” she repeats numbly. “You knew, so—so then, why are you, why did you—why can’t you look at me? What did I do? I, I showed you too, right? Am I—” She swallows hard. “Am I a disappointment? Plain old Marinette being Ladybug, is that it?”

“No!” Adrien cries out, shocked. His eyes fly open, wild and frantic. “No, no, that’s not—I’d never—it’s you, and I’m so happy it’s you but, but—”

“But _what_?”

“ _I thought you left me behind!_ ”

Her breath whooshes from her lungs in a harsh exhale, and Marinette stares at him with wide eyes, struggling to remember how to breathe. “You,” she says. “You thought I—”

“You are, aren’t you?” Adrien asks, head bowed and shoulders shaking. “I, I mean, you—you _were_ going to leave. You already left, and the fight today—I’m not wrong, am I?”

“No, no, _no_!” Marinette cries and reaches out for him, drawing back at the last second; afraid to touch him for fear he will bolt. “No, no, I would never, how could you—”

“What was I supposed to think?” Adrien snaps, voice thick. “You—you were there, and you told me you were sorry and then—you _left_! And I’m, I’m not who you thought I was, _clearly_ , so I thought maybe, maybe it was me? Or maybe it was nothing. But then, then…”

He stops, chest heaving. He’s crying openly now, cheeks glistening in the pale city lights as tears drip messily off his chin and the tip of his nose. He swipes a hand over his face and sniffs hard, and when he speaks again, his voice is muffled, words hissed through trembling fingers.

“You fought the Lantern,” Adrien says, as Marinette stares at him in mute, trembling silence. “And. And you didn’t call me. Or ask for help. Even though you needed it. You didn’t—you didn’t even—” He takes another rattling breath and his body shudders, choking back a sob. “I had to find out from the Ladyblog, and. You didn’t even call. We’re partners, and you didn’t—so I, I thought—that was it, y’know?”

“I’d never,” Marinette starts and Adrien’s head snaps up.

“Then why?!” he cries out, on the edge of hysteria, jerking unsteadily his feet. “Why did you leave, why didn’t you call—I know, I know my father’s a pain but… is it really so bad that I’m, I’m _me_?”

“That’s not,” Marinette whispers, and the words stick in her throat. She swallows and it feels like gargling glass shards and gravel. “That’s not it, I wouldn’t… I didn’t expect to find the Lantern today. I _didn’t,_ I swear. I was just, I was scouting. Just in case. I wasn’t…” _Leaving you,_ she wants to say, but something in Adrien’s eyes—unreadable and yet heartbreakingly sad—stops her short.

“If you’d known that the Lantern was going to attack today,” Adrien says, between one heartbeat and the next, “would you have asked for my help?”

“ _Yes!”_

He swallows. “Please. Marinette. Be honest?”

She presses a trembling fist against her lips to keep from crying out, rocking back on her heels as though struck. She feels like she’s being torn in two. Because it doesn’t matter that if Ladybug had gone against the Lantern she would’ve had a plan, it doesn’t matter that the last she saw of Chat Noir he was injured and bandaged and couldn’t even lay on his side, it doesn’t matter that she’d have time to plan, that she might have won. It doesn’t matter.

It’s not about the Lantern, after all. It’s not about winning. It’s about _them_.

It’s hard to say the words. Hard to force them past her lips when she’s been tripping over them for years and years. But there’s rejection and then there’s hurting Adrien—hurting Chat—hurting her _partner_.

Rejection is terrifying, but hurting him, hurting the people she cares about... that will always be the one thing that she fears the most.

So Marinette takes a breath, and grounds her feet like she facing the force of a hurricane. She remembers Tikki’s words from the night before, holds them fast to her heart for comfort—

_Things will get better._ _Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow. But one day_ _._

—and does the one thing she’s been failing to do for three years and counting.

“I love you,” she says bluntly, and chokes. “I mean, I, I like you. Like, _like_ you. A lot. Since, since that day with—the umbrella and the rain and—I’ve always liked you so much and I could never ever tell you—” she chokes again. Adrien is stunned into quiet.

“I just,” Marinette says, and gives a watery laugh. “I just—it’s so stupid, you know? Because I liked Adrien, but I always thought—I always figured that if I’d met Chat Noir first then—then—”

Adrien opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Oh,” he says, very softly.

“It’s not,” she says. “It’s not you. It’s not; I’m not leaving you behind. We’re partners, we’ll always be partners. I didn’t call you because—because you were _hurt_ , and it was _my fault_ , and I…” She trails off, biting her lip hard, tasting blood and breathing deep from her nose.

“It’s not you,” Marinette says finally. “It’s—It’s the fact I’ve sat behind you in class for three years and fought beside you for just as long and I never, _ever_ noticed.”

Adrien blinks rapidly, and breathes in slowly. “I’m still me,” he says carefully, the panic drained away, the tears drying up. “I’m still—Adrien. Chat Noir. I’m still me.”

“Yeah,” Marinette says, and wipes at her damp cheeks. “Yeah, you are. But y-you get it, right? It’s not that you're you. It’s that I n-never figured it out.”

 _It’s that I thought I knew you and it turns out there were a whole side of you I never bothered to notice,_ she doesn’t say. She doesn’t have to. The words are written all over his face as well.

“Yeah,” Adrien says. He clears his throat roughly. “Yeah. I get it.”

Marinette closes her eyes and nods jerkily, breath like flutter of wings in her chest. What a pair they make, Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Adrien Agreste. What a pair they are, Ladybug and Chat Noir. Each so helplessly enamored by one ego they completely fail to notice the other.

“We can still be friends, right?”

She looks up. Adrien is smiling tentatively, nervously. His fingers curl and uncurl, worrying together.

“We can still be friends?” he repeats. “Because—even though I missed… _this_ , I like Marinette too. Even if we can’t—I want, um. To know you. All of you. Just not halves.” He clears his throat. His face is bright red from cheek to brow. “Um.”

She’s not sure why she laughs. It’s not all that funny, really. And maybe it’s not from humor at all—maybe it’s just relief.

“Y-yeah,” she says, and smiles back. It’s shaky and thin and little strained, but it feels good to smile and actually mean it. “Yeah. M-me too.”

He smiles at her, breathless, and the expression is so familiar—so very _Chat Noir_ —that it encourages her, striking that buried confidence she’s never had the courage to show him before now.

Marinette holds out her hand, biting back a manic, hysteria-induced giggle when he startles. “Hi,” she tells him. “My name’s Marinette. A girl like every other.” Tikki brushes the back of her neck, and Marinette can feel her smile firm, becoming just a bit stronger, just a bit wider. “But when fate picks me to fight against evil forces, I… I become the Miraculous Ladybug.”

Adrien takes her hand. His palm is rough with callouses, fingers long and delicate—perfect for playing the piano. His grip is firm but loose and his nearness makes the heat rise to her cheeks, her stomach somersaulting. Marinette is suddenly reminded that for all that she is enamored with Adrien, Chat has always loved Ladybug, too.

“Hi, Marinette,” Adrien says, and beams. It’s almost like the sun. “I’m Adrien. I’m Chat Noir, sometimes, when the world needs me to be. I like fencing. And jokes. Pretty fond of cats, too.”

He takes a breath. His eyes are shining. “It’s… really nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Marinette says, and squeezes his fingers tight.

-

To say things go perfectly after that, that everything just falls back into its proper place, would be a lie. It’s a battle, after all, it’s a war. You can win but there’s still bodies left on the field and some of them… well. Some of them you know.

It’s hard, to let go of this. Adrien Agreste is all Marinette’s wanted, three years and counting. He’s got a smile like sunrise and a kindness engrained into his very bones, a kindness that could shake the world. She knows him, or at least she used to—he plays piano, he likes fencing, he knows how to speak Chinese.

On the opposite hand, Chat Noir is her best friend, her other half in a way that is far more literal than metaphorical. He is laughter, never-ending and bright, and even when his mouth is a hard flat line his eyes are dancing, smiling, shining. To him the world is a game and they are its players, but it is game he takes seriously. He is a shoulder to cry on and a comfort to both her lives.

It is not a question of whether she loves him. She’s loved Adrien for years, and she’s loved Chat too, albeit in a different way. But it is a question of why. Because she’s known this boy for years and years, loved him for just as long—and how can she pretend that she knows him, that she loves him for _him_ , when her view of who he is split plainly down two halves?

She wants to know how those pieces fit together. She wants to know Chat Noir as Adrien, Adrien as Chat Noir. She wants to know these two sides fit together to form a whole—and maybe, maybe then. Maybe then they can try.

It’s not perfect. He is too still in her arms when she drops him back at his house, when she hugs him goodbye, even if he hugs her back. Her mother cries when she walks back in through the bakery doors, and her father rewraps her injuries with shaking hands, running his fingers over her head and through her hair over and over to check she’s still in one piece. Tikki is solemn and quiet but proud, and grieving where Marinette cannot, for something Marinette has yet to understand.

It’s not perfect. The Lantern is a woman whose son was almost taken from her, whose desperation drove her into darkness. On the TV her face is wet with tears and alight with joy, and her son hides behind her, never to be threatened again. Marinette goes to school the next day and Alya hugs her so tightly her bones creak. Nino keeps glancing at Adrien’s empty seat, but his shoulders are loose. Chloe sniffs and mocks and prances with her head held high, but she is a victim of the akuma too, and for once her scorn is aimless, directed at no one at all.

It’s not perfect. But then, it doesn’t really need to be.

-

Marinette rests in a nearby park, sitting on a bench chilled by snow, her back pressing against the firm truck of a tall oak. Alya sits at her side, and fresh-packed lunch rests in her lap. The sun is warm on her face and soothing on her aching bones, and she shamelessly snuggles against Alya’s side. This close she can smell the spices that forever cling to Alya’s thick hair, mingling with the softer scent of strawberry shampoo, and the combination is comforting in its familiarity.

Alya breathes out sharply through her nose, and Marinette can feel her body shake in suppressed laughter. “You’re like a cat, Mari,” she says, voice thick with amusement. Marinette grins into her shoulder, the irony of that statement not lost on her.

“Oh, sure, laugh. Steal all my body heat too, why don’t you. You’re so very lucky I deigned to clean this bench of snow, missy.”

“Very lucky,” Marinette agrees.

“Should be thankful. I even brought an extra coat for us to sit on!”

“I’m very thankful!” Marinette protests, and lifts her head, smiling. Alya is grinning down at her.

“Good,” she says. Then, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Marinette says. She leans her head back on Alya’s shoulder, closing her eyes and burrowing herself into Alya’s side best she can. “You’re _still_ a mother-hen.”

“Hmph. Girl, I’ve got every reason to worry about _you_.”

A comfortable silence falls over them, easy and light-hearted. The Lantern’s defeat at the hands of Ladybug and Chat Noir has eased Alya’s worries, and for that, Marinette is grateful. At least something purely good came from it.

Abruptly, Alya makes a sharp noise of surprise and nudges her with an elbow. “Hey,” she says in a low hiss. “Hey, look who’s here!”

Marinette wrinkles her nose and looks, sucking in a deep breath. Across the path, Adrien gives a small wave, Nino hovering worriedly by his side. Bandages peeks out under his loose dark green tee and winter jacket. Marinette’s blue scarf is looped loose around his neck.

“Hey,” Adrien says, softly. Alya’s elbow digs deeper into Marinette’s side.

“H-hey.”

“Can I sit with you guys? If that’s okay?”

His eyes are looking somewhere past her, his lip caught between his teeth. He’s worried. Afraid of pushing the boundaries they have so tentatively set for themselves, of merging these two separate lives into one.

“Of course,” says Alya. Her elbow slams into Marinette’s ribs again, a reminder.

“Are you sure?” he asks. He’s not looking at Alya. He’s looking at Marinette and his eyes are wide and hopeful.

Marinette looks back, her smile small but sincere. In the daylight she feels settled and secure, her heart lightened. They are not perfect and perhaps not okay, but they have time, and maybe it’s better this way.

They’ll figure it out eventually. And now, they can do it together.

“Paw-sitive,” she says, and grins.

 

**.**

**.**

**.**

 

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering how canon-Mari seems to pride herself on knowing Adrien, I truthfully can't see the reveal of him being Chat Noir as going over that well. That idea was what sparked this story in the first place!! Here's to hoping I gave it justice. 
> 
> Murphy's Law is officially finished! *throws confetti* Thank you all again for sticking with me this long. Reading all your comments and seeing those kudos made my day every time. I might still write a bit more for this (technically) au--Adrien's pov maybe, or something with Marinette's parents. I'll post something on my tumblr (izaswritings) if so, so look out for that, I guess?
> 
> Thank you all again. You guys ROCK.
> 
> (Also, last thought: I honestly think the Lantern's greatest achievement was doing all of that crap in heels. Heels, man. Yikes.)


End file.
